


A High-Five is a Hug You Can Hit

by Amuly



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Richie Tozier, Childhood, Childhood Friends, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Play Fighting, Stanley Uris Lives, Top Eddie Kaspbrak, Wrestling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 02:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20958845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: They were both scrambling for the same game, anyway, so all the drama was essentially moot. Eddie kicked awkwardly at Richie’s leg as he grabbed the Twister box first, clutching it protectively to his chest. He shouted at Stan: “Twister!!” Richie slapped his hand on the box and shouted the same thing:“Twister!”Stan groaned, head hanging low. “Do we have to? You guys always pick that.”Richie snorted. “Yeah, because we fucking dominate.”“You don’t even,” Bill pointed out. “You always g-g-et way more tangled than you n-n-need and fall over each other.”Eddie sniffed. “Do not.”---------------------------Or, You Construct Intricate Rituals Which Allow You to Touch The Skin of Other Men, Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak redux.





	A High-Five is a Hug You Can Hit

_Childhood_

“Eddie Kapsbrak.”

Eddie stuck his hand out, waiting for the other kid to return the gesture. The other kid—big, thick glasses, a mop of light-ish curly hair, and like a foot taller than Eddie, annoyingly—stared down at his hand like he was an alien from a world where people didn’t shake hands. Eddie waited, eyebrows drawing together in a little frown. Maybe he was a foreigner, from a place where people didn’t shake hands? Ah, shoot.

Years later, after Eddie grew to know Richie backwards and forwards, he would think back to this moment before Richie said a word to him. When he seemed like he might be shy, or mute, or speak a different language. What a halcyon six seconds that had been.

Then the kid opened his mouth, and laughed and laughed in Eddie’s face.

“Get a load of this fucking kid!” he shouted, gesturing over at two other boys. One had curly blond hair, the other straight dark hair. Eddie whimpered, dropping his hand. He’d already screwed up making friends, on the first day of third grade. Great. Hello, lifetime of lunches sitting alone, in the corner. Hello wedgies every day until he graduated high school. Also, what was this eight-year-old doing saying ‘_fuck’_?!

Eddie glanced around worriedly for a teacher. “You can’t say that,” he said dumbly.

The kid laughed again, and something rose up inside Eddie. Well, if this kid hated him, no use trying to make friends. Eddie puffed up his chest and took a step forward, crowding into the kid’s space.

“I mean, _you’re_ the kid. My birthday is in October, so I’m older than you.” (Eddie crossed his fingers, hoping this gangly tall boy didn’t have a September birthday.) He paused, body shivering with nerves. “Fuckhead.”

The kid froze, and Eddie braced himself for a beating. He didn’t know why he said that; he just wanted to be brave. Stupid, stupid.

But then the boy’s entire face scrunched up and he howled with laughter, hooking his arm around Eddie’s skull and dragging him in for a sweaty something-like-a-hug.

“_Ha_, Bill, Stan, look at this jerk! I’ve taken shits bigger than him and he’s calling me a fuckhead. To my _face_!” The way he said ‘to my face,’ like that was the best thing _ever_, made Eddie’s stomach churn over happily. Is this a friend? Is this what friendship was? Eddie hoped so.

But he still hadn’t learned the kid’s name, and dorky handshake or not, it still wasn’t right. So Eddie shook off the kid’s arm and shoved playfully at him.

“So you got a name or am I supposed to just call you ‘fuckhead’?”

The kid burst out into a fresh wave of laughter, practically climbing on top of Eddie as he enveloped him in his sweaty arms, and that somehow turned into a wrestling match. Eddie couldn’t really follow the logic there, but he liked it, and he liked this loud kid who seemed so… impressed with him, already.

And so that was how Eddie met Richie Tozier, and sometimes he’d wished he’d kept his big mouth shut, because all it ever did was get him into trouble.

* * *

“It’s _real_.”

“It’s _not_.”

“It’s _so _real, Eddie, you’re just a momma’s boy and don’t know what _real_ men can do!”

Eddie rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. “I think I have a _basic_ understanding of biology-”

“Your _mom’s_ biology,” Richie shot back, snickering.

Eddie tapped the back of his hand against the palm of his other, gesturing emphatically, “-and it’s not biologically feasible for a man to take a _ladder_ to the back of the _head_ without sustaining a concussion!”

“Yeah, where’d you learn that? The library?”

“Where’d I learn that?” Eddie sneered.

“Yeah, where’d you learn that.”

“Your fucking mom.”

“_Your_ fucking mom!”

Richie rushed forward then, grabbing Eddie around his midsection and lifting him off the ground. Eddie screamed, and Richie tackled him, throwing him to the ground and himself on top. The wind knocked out of Eddie and he panicked. Were his ribs broken? His back? Was he going to be paralyzed the rest of his life, was one of his lungs punctured and he would die slowly of asphyxiation-

Then he got his wind back and growled, slapping valiantly at the bigger boy on top of him, eventually managing to squirm and writhe until he was out from under him. Eddie threw himself on top of Richie, little fists pounding at Richie’s shoulders and arms as Richie laughed and laughed.

“I’ll show you what’s real!” Eddie shouted.

“Yeah just like, just like-”

“If one of you guys says ‘your mom’ again in the next ten minutes I’m going to fucking scream,” Stan put in. He was sitting on one of the swings, rocking back and forth with one toe.

Richie shoved Eddie off him with one arm (Eddie didn’t like to think Richie _let_ him pin him but…) and took off. Stan cringed, grabbing one of the swing chains and curling up as he braced for Richie’s attack. But Richie jumped onto the swing next to him, kicking off and pumping his legs to get a full arc going in a matter of seconds. Eddie growled up at him from the grass. Show off.

“Richie!” Eddie whined, picking himself up and dusting himself off.

“What, you baby?” Richie sneered.

Eddie carefully navigated around Richie’s arc, even as Richie flung his legs around, trying to kick at him. Eddie settled by his side, at the bottom of his arc, glaring at him. “C’mon, let me swing.” His head followed Richie up and down and back and down again.

“Too late, loser, I got here first.”

Eddie reached out tentatively, trying to grab the swing chain at the bottom of the arc. “C’mon, Richie!”

“You can’t even swing yourself.”

“Yes I can!” He mostly could. He just had a problem getting going.

“Fuck off, Eddie, it’s my swing. Make Stan get off.”

But that wasn’t even an option. It was Stan’s house, after all. Also, it just… wasn’t. Eddie needed _Richie_’s swing.

“Let me get on,” Eddie whined again, quickly batting at the chain as Richie hit the bottom of his arc. He pulled his hand back just as fast, though, visions of broken fingers caught up in swing chains floating through his head.

Richie sighed and slowed. After a moment he rolled his eyes and nodded his head. Eddie grinned and clambered on, throwing his legs over both side of Richie so he was straddling the taller boy, facing each other. Richie groaned as he backed them both up with his feet, then ran forward and kicked off. The balance was a little weird and a little wobbly at first, but eventually they got going. Eddie put his chin on Richie’s shoulder and smiled where Richie couldn’t see it.

Stan could see it, as they passed each other in opposite arcs, but Stan looked so grateful for two seconds of peace and quiet that he wasn’t about to say anything that would destroy that.

* * *

Eddie waved his hands back and forth in front of him, sheer terror gipping his entire tiny frame and freezing him in place. “No, no, no no nonono-”

“Piledriver!”

“_Richie_!” Eddie screeched, voice ending somewhere in the register of dogs’ hearing.

Eddie was picked up bodily, _again_, but at least this time when Richie slammed him down it was onto a spring mattress. Eddie’s screeches devolved into giggles as Richie climbed on top of him, mattress squeaking in protest beneath them. Richie held both hands over his head, then clasped them together and started shaking them on one side, then the other, as he made crowd cheering noises with his mouth.

“Kkkssshhhh, kkssshshhhhhh, and the crowd goes wild! Kkksssshhhh!!”

“For what, Richie the fart-face?” Eddie grumbled, batting at Richie’s torso ineffectively.

“Eddie the mother fucker goes _down_-” Richie continued in his fake announcer voice.

“Yeah and she loved it!” Eddie growled, increasing his struggles beneath Richie, trying to toss him off. Richie just laughed and turned his attention back to Eddie with a glint in his eye.

“What’s that? Eddie the mother fucker is refusing to go down?”

“Went down on your mother-”

“Looks like Richie the Rad-”

“Fucking Trashmouth, Richie Trashmouth-” Eddie hissed, struggling growing more frantic. He didn’t like that look he could make out behind those coke bottle glasses. There was no telling _what_ Richie was going to do to him. Fart on his face? Give him a wedgie? Eddie tried to buck his hips, but he couldn’t lift them an inch.

“He’s pulling out his patented move, Eds the Impaler’s only weakness-”

Heh. Eddie kinda liked that one. But, wait. Oh no-

“The _tickling thunder_!!”

“No Richie no!” Eddie dissolved into a puddle of shrieks and laughter as Richie _relentlessly_ tickled him everywhere he could. Armpits, stomach, neck. Eddie thrashed around beneath him but couldn’t break free, and the more he laughed, the less energy he had to struggle. Richie’s glasses slid down to the tip of his nose as he increased the ferocity of his attack.

“If you two g-g-girls are done making out?” Bill scolded them. Him and Stan were sitting on the floor of his bedroom, school project spread out beneath them. Eddie felt vaguely guilty, but Stan and Bill were both good students so it wasn’t like they weren’t going to get it done tonight. Richie was the only fuck-up in school, out of the four of them.

Richie rolled his eyes at Bill.

“You’re just jealous because you haven’t kissed a girl yet, and I already made out with Tiffany Pascale like, a year ago.”

_You did not_, Eddie thought, because he knew the real story. About how Tiffany had liked Richie and asked him to meet her after school on the playground and Richie had but then chickened out as soon as she kissed him and run home. Or rather, run over to Eddie’s house and complained about how she smelled like too much perfume and had sticky lip gloss as he threw a tennis ball against the wall and annoyed the shit out of Eddie’s mommy.

“You’re such a liar,” Stan told him with a tinge of jealousy.

“Am not! Eddie knows!”

Eddie slid off the bed with Richie, avoiding the other boys’ eyes. “C’mon, I already told you guys like ten times.”

“See!” Richie punched Eddie in the shoulder, too hard, so Eddie slapped back at him. “What do you two nerds even need help with, anyway?”

“Uh, it’s your project, too,” Stan told him. “We’re not going to just do all your work for you.”

“_Eeeeedd-ieeeee_,” Richie whined.

“Fuck off, I’m not doing your work for you,” Eddie grumbled, a little annoyed Richie thought he’d be the soft target. More annoyed that it felt like an accurate assessment, somehow.

“_Fine_,” Richie huffed. He threw himself down alongside Stan and Bill. “What do you need me to do, nerds?”

Smugly Stan handed over a piece of graph paper. “You can make charts of all our data.”

Richie scanned down the page. “It’s just a bunch of numbers.”

“Yeah.” Bill pointed at the columns. “And now you have to p-p-lot the data.”

“And come up with best-fit curves,” Stan smirked.

Richie looked up at them frantically. “What the fuck is that?!”

Eddie sighed and sat down alongside them. “It’s math, Richie. Here: I’ll set up the graph, you plot the points, okay?”

Richie snorted and passed the pencil over to Eddie. “Fine by me.”

As Eddie bent his head and started figuring out what scales his axes should be numbered by, Richie scooted closer and closer, getting all up in his personal space. Eddie tried to keep working, but Richie was doing his damndest to distract him. Finally, _finally_, Eddie had the four graphs perfectly set up, axis labels and scales and all. He looked up, theoretically to hand over the notebook to Richie so he could start plotting the points. Richie was right in his face, cheeks puffed out, burst with some stupid fucking joke.

Eddie sighed and braced himself. “What is it, Richie?”

“_If the number two pencil is so popular why is it still number two?_!”

Eddie slowly sank backwards on the floor until he was lying on his back, utterly defeated by the sheer stupidity of his best friend. Why did he ever decide to introduce himself to this fucking moron the first day of third grade? Because he was fucking stuck with him, now. Forever, it seemed like.

The giggles hit Eddie delayed and Richie crooned his victory before bending his head to painstakingly plot their data points.

* * *

“Eddie! Richie!”

Eddie jumped in his seat, hand slipping from Richie’s even as Richie snickered and pinned his thumb (cheating, totally cheating).

“Yes, Mrs. McCullough?”

Mrs. McCullough glared down at the boys, tapping her foot. “That’s the seventh time this week. See me after class.”

Eddie shriveled up in his seat, hands slipping over his head as he tried to hide himself. Mommy was going to be _so mad_.

Richie, God love him, couldn’t keep his trash-mouth shut.

“But Mrs. M-!”

“That’s enough, Richie.”

“There wasn’t any _rule_ against thumb wars _last_ week!”

“_Last week_,” Mrs. McCullough snapped, “You hadn’t yet discovered thumb wars and my classroom was still a place of learning. _This_ week…” she let the sentence hang unfinished as she arched an eyebrow down at Richie. “Do you want _two_ weeks of detention, Mr. Tozier?”

Richie threw himself back in his chair with a huff, but for once, clamped his mouth shut.

Not even two minutes later, but once Mrs. McCullough had turned back to the blackboard, a piece of paper smacked Eddie upside the head and fell onto his desk. He glanced next to him where Richie was staring off into space… except for his eyes which kept flickering over to Eddie and the note on his desk. If he could whistle, he’d be whistling (but Eddie knew he _couldn’t_, even though Eddie _could_).

Eddie unfolded the note. Then he glared at Richie and grabbed for his pencil so he could _correct_ the dumb note that was totally _wrong_.

Richie Eds

|||| ||

Eddie quickly scribbled three more tallies next to his name, making it an even five, and erased one from Richie’s. Then he started frenetically writing a dissertation on his corrections beneath.

  1. _That time at the quarry when you said there was a bee doesn’t count because you know I’m allergic to bees so that’s not fair that’s cheating_
  2. _On the swings after school just because you had to pee doesn’t mean you forfeit_
  3. _Bill swearing without stuttering doesn’t count as a forfeit_
  4. _The arca-_

“Have something to share with the class, Mr. Kaspbrak?”

Eddie froze in the middle of explaining the third victory of his Richie failed to count. His head swung slowly up to Mrs. McCullough like he was going to the guillotine.

“Uh…” was all he managed.

“Go on.” Mrs. McCullough demanded, eyes steely.

Eddie closed his eyes and swore, cursing Richie Tozier out with every curse word he knew. That rat bastard. It was _his_ note. Eddie was just annotating it, properly! It was practically _homework_.

Slowly Eddie slumped to the front of the room, ignoring Richie’s silent support that he could feel burning a hole in the back of his head. When he got to the front he refused to look up, instead focusing on Richie’s _stupid_ note in his hands.

“Uh, it says… Richie, and then Eds-”

“_Sitting in a tree_!” someone shouted out from the back of the room.

“Shut up!” Eddie shouted, at the same time that Richie jumped out of his chair: “Shut up!”

“Mr. Tozier!”

“Yell at them don’t yell at me!” Richie exclaimed.

When Mrs. McCullough gestured at him to continue Eddie’s heart sank. He really had to read through all this?

“Uh, it’s four tallies under Richie, and two under Eds-”

“_K-I-S-S-I-N-G_!”

Richie launched himself up from his seat, apparently honed in on whoever the offending classmate was, because in the next second he was grappling on the floor, some other boy dragged out of his seat with the force of Richie’s wrath. Eddie folded up the note and shoved it into his shoe, using Mrs. McCullough’s distraction to slip back to his desk.

After class Richie had a black eye and a split lip but grinned (then winced) as Eddie dragged him into the hall and made him wait as he pulled the paper out of his shoe.

“No offense Eds but I’m not so in love with you that I want to smell your toe cheese.”

“Right I forgot it’s all about the dick cheese for you,” Eddie shot back as he slapped the note into Richie’s hand. “You forgot some. And cheated on one of yours.”

“I forgot the only one I’m allowed to cheat on is your mom.” Richie was reading through Eddie’s delicate penmanship carefully.

“Yeah well I’m not a cheater so go and tell your dad that when I’m fucking your sister.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fuck you more.”

“Thumb wrestle?”

They were still deadlocked when the bell for the next class rang, and Eddie found himself locked in a death grip with Richie outside science class, both of them telling Mr. Allen just “Wait, hang on, wait, look, he’s almost, I’ve nearly, just hang on, wait-”.

Until Mr. Allen got fed up and gave them both another day of detention.

* * *

Eddie’s little avatar—his Street Fighter, calling it a “little avatar” felt like something his mommy would say, and that would get him ridiculed for sure if he ever let slip—died for the umpteenth time that day. Eddie grumbled and shoved the joystick away from him. It returned the center, like it always did.

“I don’t like this, Richie. Let’s go do something else.”

“Like fucking what?” Richie asked, already dropping another token in the machine. Reluctantly Eddie grabbed his joystick again, flipping through the character options. Maybe one of the girls was secretly awesome? He hadn’t played any of them yet…

“Like, I don’t know, be outside, in the sunshine, while the weather is still nice?”

“It’s fall, don’t you have seasonal allergies?”

Well, yeah. But still.

“Why are you playing a _girl_?”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Because I’ve tried every other guy on here and they all _suck_.”

“_You_ suck.”

“Your mother sucks.”

“_Your_ mother sucks.”

The game started and so Eddie and Richie were stuck hitting each other with their shoulders as their hands were erstwhile occupied with buttons and joystick. Turns out, the girl players weren’t any better, Eddie just sucked.

When Eddie died for the who knows how many-th time, he shoved away from the game and started to storm off through the arcade.

“Hey, wait! Eddie?”

“I don’t want to play again,” Eddie groaned. “I _suck_ at this. What if I made you…” he tried to think of something he was good at that Richie sucked at. Math, but. Wasn’t like he was going to suggest the two of them go home on a Saturday afternoon and do _math_ homework.

Richie snorted as he followed Eddie, cornering him by the token machine in the arcade.

“Yeah, what? You’re not good at any of this shit.”

“Yeah, oh, I’m gonna go home and cry on my hypoallergenic pillows because I’m not good at _video games_, or throwing rocks, or whatever,” Eddie scoffed. “You know it’s not important, you know? I’m good at the important stuff.”

“You know school isn’t _real_, right? Like, you’re not gonna use _algebra_ when you’re a surgeon.”

“I’m not going to be a surgeon,” Eddie huffed.

“Well then what’s the point of memorizing every disease in the world?” Richie snorted.

“Because I have a body and bodies get diseases!” Eddie exclaimed, voice raising an octave. Richie laughed and reached out to try and ruffle his hair, but Eddie ducked away from him. Richie gave chase, of course, and Eddie kept ducking away, backing up towards the front doors of the arcade.

“Oh no are the girlfriends fighting?”

Eddie jumped backwards, subconsciously hiding himself behind Richie’s lankier frame. Whether Richie was aware of it or not, he put an arm out across Eddie, an extra gesture of protection which was just as futile as Eddie trying to hide behind him. If the Bowers wanted to get them, they would. They always could. Richie wasn’t big enough to stop them, and Eddie certainly wasn’t. 

“Sorry,” Richie mumbled. 

“S-s-s-sorry? Was that a stutter? Oh wait, that’s your other gay friend, isn’t it?” Bowers leaned forward and sneered. “Can’t tell you faggots apart. You all look alike.”

Richie didn’t say anything. Richie was looking down, trying to avoid eye contact. His body was still in front of Eddie’s but he was so scared. Eddie hated it. He hated the stupid Bowers and how they could make Richie scared. Richie wasn’t supposed to be quiet and meek. Richie stood up for Eddie, to the teachers, to his mommy, even (sometimes)! 

“Well then these must be your butt-buddies because you all look alike to me!” Eddie shouted, righteous, protective anger swelling in his chest. 

The smirk dropped off Bowers face. 

Eddie thought maybe he peed himself a little. What the fuck was he _thinking_?

They ran, and ran, and ran. Somehow they escaped this time, hopping over two fences and down a couple alleyways and up a fire escape before the Bowers lost track of them. They were panting on a rooftop, peering down as the Bowers huffed and stormed away. Eddie went for in his pockets for his inhaler, when he realized his hand was tight in Richie’s sweaty grip. Richie wasn’t even looking at him, glasses fixed at the street below them as they panted in time with each other.

Gently Eddie slid his hand from Richie’s, fumbling for his inhaler and taking two big puffs. Richie finally turned his attention back to Eddie as he did, frowning. 

“What the fuck is that?”

“My inhaler.”

“I know what an inhaler is, I mean why the fuck do you have one?”

“Because I have asthma, dipshit,” Eddie shot back, a little annoyed. His breathing was slowing, though, so there you go. Inhaler did the trick. 

“You didn’t have asthma last week,” Richie mumbled, eyes fixed on the inhaler. Eddie didn’t like the way he was looking at it, so he tucked it away in his opposite pocket, away from Richie.

“Well you’ve got to get it sometime,” Eddie mused, pretty philosophically if you asked him.

“No you don’t. You could just. Not have asthma.”

“I mean, if you’re gonna get it, then you get it over time, you know? You’re not _born_ with it. So there’s always gonna be one week when you don’t have it, and then a week when now you’ve got it.”

“That’s stupid,” Richie mumbled, but he didn’t have any more elegant protest against it, so Eddie figured he’d won.

After a minute Richie grabbed the back of Eddie’s neck and shook him roughly. “Well, that got you out of getting your ass kicked at Street Fighter,” he mused.

Eddie snorted. Yeah, _that_ had been his plan. But, while they were on the subject…

“Wanna sneak into the movies?” Eddie asked.

Richie rolled his eyes but scrambled to his feet, reaching a hand down to haul Eddie up. “Ghostbusters!” he shouted in Eddie’s face.

Eddie grimaced. “We’ve seen it like, ten times.” And the second one kinda sucked, even though no one around him seemed willing to admit it.

“Well what _else _are we gonna see?”

And that’s how Eddie found himself sniffling quietly as Richie gazed up in awe at Robin Williams and Robert Sean Leonard navigate the perils of learning poetry at an all boys school. Richie began ruthlessly digging the movie the second they stepped out into the sunshine, but Eddie had seen his face in the dark of the theater, illuminated only by the lights on the screen. Something about that film had jarred something in his damn _soul_, or something. Eddie just thought it was kinda sad, but nice. It was cool how the boys all had their secret society where they could do nerd stuff. Instead of play Street Fighter all summer long.

* * *

They were picking a path through the woods and it was fucking _freezing_ out. Eddie felt the need to play den mother, as usual, and remind all his idiot friends of exactly what a terrible idea this was.

“You know, one of the symptoms of hypothermia is feeling like you’re warm. So like, your body gets so cold that it gets hot, and then you start taking off your clothes-”

“Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Eddie?” Richie shot back at him without turning around.

“Why don’t you ask your sister how much she liked it last week!” Eddie hollered up at him. Richie just flipped him off without looking. That kinda… bugged Eddie. What the fuck did Richie think he was doing leading up the group with Bill? Why was he stuck back here with Stan? Eddie glanced over at Stan, who was trudging tiredly through the woods alongside him, breath puffing out in little clouds of smoke.

“Okay, Stan?”

Stan glanced over at him, confused. Then he shrugged. “Yeah, fine. Cold.”

“Well that’s better than feeling warm.” And now Eddie was back on track. “Because, if anyone starts feeling warm, they should tell the others immediately. That’s a sign of hypothermia. And we have to warm you up. But you have to do it gradually, you can’t just jump in like, a pot of boiling water-”

“Why, b-b-ecause that’s normally f-f-fine?” Bill pointed out.

Eddie thought about that for half a second. He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean, like, a hot bath. Your body, it goes into _shock_! So you have to heat it up gradually, like with body heat-”

Suddenly Richie dropped back, shoving Stan aside as he leapt to grapple Eddie into a hug. “Now I get it! You just want to get me naked!”

“Fuck _off_, Richie!” Eddie hollered, struggling in Richie’s arms.

“Are you feeling warm, Eddie? That’s a sign of hypothermia, you know. We better…”

“No, no, don’t you fucking-”

“-share-”

“-get your fucking hands off me, Richie! I swear, I’m gonna slap your face, I’m gonna-”

“-_body heat!!!_”

With that, Richie tackled them both to the ground, rubbing his torso all over Eddie’s (though thankfully he let them keep both their shirts, sweaters, and coats on. Eddie might’ve actually freaked if Richie tried to strip them in the middle of the freezing woods.

“Oh Eddie, save me! I’m hypothermia!”

“Hypothermic,” Eddie corrected, but it was between gasping laughs as Richie spazzed out on top of him like a dying octopus. He laughed and laughed and slapped at Richie’s gangly limbs everywhere.

“Here! Look, guys.”

Bill was standing at an old tree—the whole stupid reason they’d come out in the woods in the middle of November. Stan, pushed aside by Richie, hurried up to meet him. Together they peered inside the tree trunk, eyes going wide and making weird humming noises of consideration. Eddie and Richie glanced at each other; Richie looking down at Eddie, Eddie looking up into his big dumb glasses. Then they scrambled, dead leaves crunching and flying as they raced to shove each other and get to the tree first.

“Ew, what?” were the first words out of Eddie’s mouth. He heard a similar expression of disgust from Richie before Richie fell abruptly, noticeably silent. Eddie glanced back at him but Richie’s expression had locked down into something unreadable.

“I heard s-s-some older kids talking ab-b-out it,” Bill explained as he pulled the dirty (figuratively _and_ literally, Eddie thought with disgust) magazines from their hidey-hole in the tree trunk and started passing them around.

“Ziplocs?” Richie asked dumbly.

“So they don’t get wet,” Stan theorized.

“Great, and so all the jizz and germs inside can really fester in their hermetically sealed petri dish,” Eddie squeaked, leaning away as Bill passed one bag to Stan. It had a woman with very, very big boobs on the cover, looking very… aggressive. Eddie didn’t want that anywhere _near_ him, no thanks, he’d pass.

“Here, Richie,” Stan offered.

Richie’s face was still that weird, unreadable mask. Eddie had never seen him like this before. He peered at Richie curiously, not sure what he was looking for. It was just… weird. Richie was acting weird.

“Haha,” Richie finally wheezed out, brokenly. “Why do I need these things when I’ve got the real thing waiting for me at home. Right, Eddie?”

“You have Hustler at home?” Eddie asked stupidly.

“No way, Eddie. Your mom would never allow the competition.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. That was Richie.

Bill and Stan had already opened their ziplocs and were peering through the dirty magazines, eyes wide and gleaming. Eddie scrunched up his face and kept his distance. Richie, weirdly, seemed happy to do the same.

“Whoa, check a load of _this_,” Stan breathed. He started to pass it over to Eddie, who nearly tripped over himself backing up, trying not to touch it.

“Gross, gross, c’mon!” he whined. Stan rolled his eyes.

“Look, what if I just hold it for you? It’s not fair you missing out just because you don’t want to touch it.”

“He doesn’t need your stupid dirty mags,” Richie said, surprisingly coming to Eddie’s defense. Their eyes caught, and Eddie gave him an astonished little nod. Richie returned it.

Eddie was confused. He wasn’t sure why Richie was suddenly defending his germaphobia. But he supposed he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, since he really, _really_ didn’t want to let those jizzy magazines anywhere _near_ his person. Not to mention he didn’t really see the fuss in seeing a bunch of old ladies naked. Yeah, boobs and whatever, but really. Those women were like, their mom’s ages! It’s not like they could do anything with them. The girls at school were more appealing than this.

But Bill and Stan were squinting at him weird. And then Bill’s head turned and squinted at Richie weird.

“W-w-w-hat the hell, Richie? Don’t you w-want to look?”

A flash of something across Richie’s face. Almost like… fear? Panic? Eddie couldn’t figure it out: it was gone too quickly. But then Richie laughed, mouth stretching big. “Course I want to. Give me that.” He snatched the magazine away from Bill and jerked his head at Eddie. “C’mon, Eds. I’ll hold it for you.”

Confused, Eddie followed Richie because, well, it didn’t occur to him _not_ to follow Richie. After they were a little ways away, Richie ducked behind a thick enough tree to hide the both of them. Then he tossed the magazine away with a grunt and sat down on the leaf-covered forest floor.

Eddie had kind of thought Richie was going to trick him and shove the magazine against his face as soon as they were separated from the other two. He was sure what to do with this quiet Richie. So he slid down next to him on the forest floor, backs against the tree trunk.

“I don’t like that shit,” Richie whispered. After a moment he continued: “Because like, my sister, you know.”

Eddie wasn’t sure he knew, but he was an only child, so. He didn’t really understand a lot of sibling stuff, it always seemed.

“Like, Mom says that shit is disrespectful to women, and like, what if Julie did that stuff, like, how would Mom and Dad feel if a bunch of sticky boys were passing around her picture in the woods, you know?”

“That’s gross,” Eddie agreed. He still didn’t think that made a lot of sense, but he took Richie at his word. Mostly because he couldn’t figure out what else it could be.

“Yeah. Fucking gross.”

Eddie toed at the ground.

“Fuck, it’s cold.”

Richie groaned. “Yeah, it fucking is. Fucking Bill and his bright ideas.” Richie pushed off from the ground and reached a hand down to Eddie. “C’mon. Let’s go see a movie. I saved my lunch money this week.”

“Yeah, by eating my lunch,” Eddie whined. But he took Richie’s hand and trailed along beside him out of the woods.

* * *

The water was the perfect coolness on the hot summer day. Eddie didn’t even care that it was probably bacteria infested, because he was so fucking _hot_ from trying to build a tree fort all day with Richie and Stan and Bill. Eddie plugged his ears and dipped under before surfacing, gasping in satisfaction of cool relief.

“Hey Eddie! Hey! Eddie! Eddie! Look!”

Eddie splashed himself in a circle until he spotted Richie, waving at him from a dozen yards away. “What?”

Richie took an exaggerated breath before diving down under the surface. After a moment his legs reappeared, waggling above the water. He kicked them about for a bit before resurfacing in triumph.

“Underwater handstand!”

Eddie snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Fuck you, I’m not a nerd, you’re a nerd!”

“Nice comeback,” Eddie snickered.

Richie growled at him, then suddenly took off, swimming his direction. Eddie screamed and hurriedly turned around, trying to paddle away as fast as he could. But fucking Richie, with his freakishly long arms and legs, caught up to Eddie in no time at all. Eddie barely had a second to take a breath before Richie was dunking him, cackling as he did.

“Agh, dick!” Eddie screeched. Richie dunked him again. When he let go this time Eddie swam a few feet away, shaking his head from side to side.

“You didn’t even let me plug my ears! If I don’t plug my ears then an amoeba could get in, and start to eat my brains, and I’ll be dead in three days. Three days, Richie! And it’ll be your fault!”

“I’ll make sure to offer my sincerest condolences to your mom at your funeral,” Richie said sarcastically. “And then, oh, what’s this, Mrs. Kaspbrak?”

“Don’t,” Eddie threatened.

“It just feels so good to be touched by someone now, in your hour of need?”

“I swear to fuck, Richie…”

“And then, what’s happening? She leaned forward and… oh no, Eds. She pulled down my zipper and took out my _massive hog_.”

“I’ll kill you!” Eddie screeched, launching himself. Richie laughed as they connected, skin slipping over skin as Eddie tried to dunk Richie (and most just ended up propping himself up on Richie’s shoulders).

“Take it back!” Eddie howled, shoving at Richie’s shoulders.

“Ahaha, never!” Richie cackled. Eddie managed to almost dunk him.

“Take it back, Tozier!”

“Me and your mom are so happy, why don’t you want her to be happy, Eddie?”

“Gahh!”

Stan swam over, treading water lightly just out of their splash zone. Eddie peered at him over Richie’s head, where he was still balancing with his hands on Richie’s shoulders. Richie turned to him, too.

“You guys wanna play chicken?”

Richie ducked under the water before Eddie could even reply with an enthusiastic ‘duh, yeah.’ He realized what Richie was doing pretty much the instant he did it, a squeak slipping from Eddie’s through as he found himself scrambling to grab onto Richie’s hair, his shoulders, as Richie resurfaced directly between Eddie’s legs. Eddie clung to Richie’s neck as they balanced themselves, then, once they were stable, smacked Richie upside the head with one hand.

“A little warning next time!”

“Nah, because you would’ve wanted to shoot for the bottom, and we both know you can’t lift me.”

Eddie growled. “I can, I totally can, it’s in the _water_, Richie, it’s not like lifting you on land.”

“Bullshit. Anyway,” Richie squeezed at Eddie’s calves, held tightly between his hands. “You’re a way better grappler than me.”

Well, that was a damn lie. But Eddie was willing to accept it, because maybe that whole thing about being able to lift Richie was a lie, too.

* * *

Eddie and Richie fell over each other running for the games’ cabinet in Stan’s rec room. “Move it!”

“You move it!”

“Get off my _face_!”

“You get your face off my hand!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck your mom!”

“You wish!”

“Don’t have to wish, I have.”

“Fucked your sister.”

“Fuck you!”

They were both scrambling for the same game, anyway, so all the drama was essentially moot. Eddie kicked awkwardly at Richie’s leg as he grabbed the Twister box first, clutching it protectively to his chest. He shouted at Stan: “Twister!!” Richie slapped his hand on the box and shouted the same thing:

“Twister!”

Stan groaned, head hanging low. “Do we _have_ to? You guys _always _pick that.”

Richie snorted. “Yeah, because we fucking _dominate_.”

“You don’t even,” Bill pointed out. “You always g-g-et way more tangled than you n-n-need and fall over each other.”

Eddie sniffed. “Do not.”

Stan turned his attention to him. “And you’re too little to reach across the whole mat!”

Eddie shoved the box into Richie’s waiting arms.

“Say that to my face!”

Stan rolled his eyes. “Uh, I just did.” Then he smirked. “Oh, you mean to your face?” Stan bent down dramatically so his eyes were level with Eddies. “Sorry I forgot you’re all the way down there.”

“Plenty of boys go through growth spurts at different times in their development,” Eddie recited, face burning red. “Just because you’re taller than me now doesn’t mean I’m not gonna shoot up like a foot one summer and tower over all you jerkwads.”

“You say that every y-year,” Bill pointed out, way too smugly.

“I’m exactly the average height for a boy my age living in the US!” Eddie pointed out. “All my growth charts at the doctors are exactly in the middle of the range. You guys are all super tall freaks. You’re the anomalies, not me!”

Richie stepped forward with the twister box held triumphantly over his head. “Besides, it’s majority rules, and both Eddie and me want Twister, so-” he dropped into an announcer voice, “we. Have. A. Wiiinnerrrr!! Kssshhhhh kkkkksshhhh.”

“No we don’t,” Stan cut off Richie’s fake crowd cheers. “Two vs two isn’t a majority. It’s a tie.”

“It’s not,” Eddie corrected in a rush, voice cracking, “because you and Bill can never agree on a game so it’s actually two versus one versus one and then _that’s_ majority!”

But Stan was smiling, the bastard. He shot a look over at Bill and the bottom of Eddie’s stomach dropped out because, those _jerkwads_. They’d figured it out! And joined forces?! Only Eddie and Richie were supposed to do that!

“I vote Life,” Stan said. He looked at Bill. 

“I vote Life,” he said, and the shit, he didn’t even _stutter_.

Richie’s jaw dropped and he turned to Eddie for a solution. Eddie jerked his arms around in a gesture that eventually ended in a shrug.

“Shoot for it!” Eddie finally said, just to have something, anything, that wasn’t having to default to _Life_ (bullshit game, he always lost because he went to college and it was never worth it. What kind of message was that sending to impressionable kids?!). 

Stan’s head cocked, and he glanced over at Bill. Eddie has suggested it because Richie always beat him at Rock Paper Scissors, but he didn’t actually know how good Richie was, like, objectively? Shit. 

After a moment Stan and Bill both nodded. Stan turned to them. “Okay. I’ll shoot you for it.”

Eddie’s heart was in his throat. C’mon, c’mon… Richie just had to win, he always kicked Eddie’s ass at this anyway, c’mon…

_“Right foot green!”_ Richie shouted, and Eddie giggled himself silly as he tried to swing a leg over Richie’s back and Richie tried to squirm a leg beneath his hips. They collapsed in a heap, laughing and hitting at each other,

“You spazz! I had that!”

“You did _not_, Eds, your leg was three feet too short to get that.”

“Bullshit! I fucking did!”

“Fuck you, you did!”

“Fuck _you_, I did!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!”

Eddie jumped on top of Richie, punching at his shoulders with bunched up fists as Richie snickered to himself, forearms pulled up to ward off the utterly superficial blows.

“Next time we’ll pull out the hobbit version,” Richie giggled. “Bag End’s own copy of Twister. _Master Eddie, we can’t have you playing Twister. That’s a Man’s game, not right at all for hobbits._”

Eddie smacked Richie harder, though he was laughing at Richie’s Samwise voice.

“It’s okay, Eds. Hobbits are pretty cool. After all, they have…” Richie paused for dramatic effect, peering up at Eddie from behind his hands. Eddie’s eyes narrowed down at him. “_Hairy feet!”_

Eddie squealed as Richie tipped him backwards and went for his socks, trying to rip them off.

“No, gross, Richie! Don’t, ugh, don’t touch my feet! It’s so gross!”

“_Want to smell your toe cheese, I do,” _Richie said in his best Yoda voice.

“That’s not even the same genre!”

From where he was still perfectly positioned on the Twister mat, Stan ducked his head under his arm and glared at them.

“If you guys are out, can we play something else now?”

“_No!_”

* * *

Richie slammed his elbow down on the lunch table, hand held up. He waggled it at Eddie. “C’mon, Eds!”

Eddie grumbled, rubbing at his arm. “Naw, Richie, c’mon. You _always_ beat me.”

“Yeah exactly, fuck face. You gotta try and regain your honor as a man.”

“It’s got nothing to do with my manliness-”

“Totally does, you’ve got weak little Eddie Spaghetti arms.”

“It’s all about _leverage_,” Eddie rushed on, heating up. “Your arms are like, five inches longer than mine, so of _course_ you always beat me-”

“I got something else five inches longer-”

“It’s _basic. Physics_,” Eddie insisted, tapping his hand against his palm for emphasis. “The longer the lever is from the fulcrum the less force you have to apply to it. And your fucking _levers_ are a whole five inches further from the fulcrum, i.e., the table, than mine are-”

“E.T.? Where?” Richie made a big show of looking around.

“-and so even if your biceps exert like, two times less force than mine, you’ve got the advantage! Ipso-factso-”

“Nah, the fatso is that new kid, Bob or something-”

“-arm wrestling is a _terrible_ measure of our relative bicep strength. All it’s _really_ measuring is that your arms are longer than mine, which I coulda done with a _ruler_.”

“I know something else you can measure with that ruler. Actually, more like a yard stick, ha!” Richie raised his hand for a high-five.

Eddie sighed and, after a moment’s hesitation, high-fived him.

“’kay,” Richie said. And then: “So wanna arm wrestle?”

Eddie lost, miserably. As he rubbed at his arm Richie stole a fry from his plate and peered at him.

“Yo, is all that shit you just rattled off real shit, or did you make it up?”

“What? I didn’t make it up. We learned that in physics class, like, last week.”

“I don’t remember anything about arm wrestling,” Richie mused.

“There wasn’t… Fuck, Richie. You’re gonna end up in summer school, you know, if you don’t pay attention more.”

“Eh, no I won’t. You’ll let me cheat off your tests.”

“Uh, no I won’t.”

Richie grabbed Eddie’s milk and took a swig. Eddie wrinkled his nose and stared down into it, like he’d be able to see if Richie had backwashed or not. Probably not, right?

Eddie picked up the milk from his tray and gently set it aside.

“Yeah you will,” Richie smirked. “Here: I’ll use my left arm! It’s way weaker.”

“That doesn’t even… It’s not about… It would be _my_…” Eddie sighed and held his left hand up. “Fine.”

“You know why my left arm’s weaker?” Richie asked as they clasped hands again. He wasn’t even trying, Eddie could tell. And Eddie was trying _really_ hard. Well, maybe if he caught Richie off guard, he could win, just this _once_…

“Eddie! I said, ‘you know why my left arm’s weaker?’”

“Huh? Because you’re a rightie?”

“Well, yeah. But also, because I use my right when I’m _jacking off_.”

He probably didn’t even wash his hands. Eddie gagged, leaning off to the side. But he kept his grip tight on Richie’s hand (it was his left hand, anyway) because damn it, maybe he could _win_ this one. When he looked back Richie was grinning, eyebrows waggling up and down above his glasses.

Then he shoved Eddie’s arm down in one easy motion and Eddie sighed, tipping back on the lunch table bench in utter defeat. And then went for his fanny pack to Purell the shit out of his hands before he had another bite of his lunch.

_Losers_

Richie skidded to a stop in front of Eddie’s house, bike wheels screeching. He clanged his bell as hard as it could clang, incessantly. “Eddie!” he screamed. “Eddie!!”

Eddie jumped off his front porch, blazing out of his house, fanny pack banging against his hip. “Okay, Mommy! I’ll be safe, Mommy!” Without looking back once he clambered only semi-awkwardly onto the pegs of Richie’s bike, good arm wrapped firm around his waist. “Okay, go, go!”

Richie didn’t need to be told twice. He kicked off, running the bike a few paces up to speed before slamming his feet onto the pedals and pedaling hard. Once they were around the corner at the end of the street Eddie relaxed, just a little, breathing a sigh of relief against Richie’s hair.

“Sorry. You know how my mom is.”

“Wants to wrap you in bubble wrap for the rest of the summer?” Richie snorted.

Eddie rolled his eyes. “More like the rest of my _life_, now,” Eddie grumbled. He held his cast up awkwardly, trying to figure out where to rest it. Eventually he settled on placing it very gently on Richie’s shoulder. Richie didn’t say anything, just kept pedaling them into town, away from Eddie’s house.

“Do you wanna go to the movies tomorrow?” Richie asked as they made the turn down main street that would cut them across to Bill’s side of town.

“If there’s something good out,” Eddie agreed. He’d agree to pretty much anything that wasn’t playing Street Fighter, which luckily he was shut out from playing for the rest of the summer thanks to his broken arm. Silver linings, and all that.

“I can pick you up,” Richie promised him. Eddie smiled and patted at Richie’s waist.

“Thanks, Richie. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Bullshit. You could never cart all my gargantuan manliness around with your toothpick legs.”

“Well I don’t mean like _literally the same thing_,” Eddie shot back. “Dumbass, what, are you _planning _on breaking your arm?”

“Nah, but you know me, it’ll probably happen.”

“Hasn’t happened yet,” Eddie pointed out.

“Huh. Yeah.” Richie considered this for a long minute. “I must have stronger bones than you. No spaghetti noodle arms for me!”

“You’re such a dick, Richie.”

“Seven inches worth!” Richie crowed.

Eddie rolled his eyes and ignored that. You had to, if you wanted to stay friends with the likes of Richie Tozier.

“Wait, so: movies?”

“Yeah, Richie. Movies tomorrow.”

“Radical. Hey, you think I could pop a wheelie with you on back?”

“Don’t you dare, don’t you _fucking dare, Richie-!_”

* * *

Eddie was going out of his _mind_. He breathed through his nose, eyes closed, as he tried to hold onto the last shreds of his sanity. This was torture. This was worse than having his arm broken by a crazy murder clown.

Okay, it wasn’t worse than that. But it had been going on _longer_ than that shit, and it was going to slowly. Surely. Drive him. _Crazy_.

“Eds, what’s wrong?”

Eddie breathed and opened his eyes, coming face-to-face with Richie’s too-big eyes behind too big glasses. They actually looked _concerned_. He’d been doing more and more of that, since It. Seeming all worried-like, trying to take care of him. Eddie had kinda worried he would hate all that attention from Richie, that Richie would turn into his _mom_, all controlling and overbearing and Eddie would grow to slowly resent him over what was left of their summer. But Richie wasn’t like his mom. Richie was still loud and obnoxious and slapped Eddie around. He just also… cared.

Eddie wasn’t aware you could do both. He hadn’t known caring could look like this.

“My arm’s driving me fucking nuts,” Eddie gritted out.

Richie dropped down next to Eddie on the floor of their hideout. His hands went for Eddie’s cast, then pulled away.

“What is it? Does it hurt?”

“No, no,” Eddie shook his head. He rolled his eyes up to the earthen (definitely not properly reinforced) ceiling. “It fucking _itches_.”

Richie frowned for a second, processing this. Then he lit up. “Oh! Well, you shoulda said something, Eds.”

He disappeared, running over to the stash of his shit he kept in a makeshift cubby over by their hammock. Less than a minute and he was back, holding a stick. Eddie squinted at it.

“Here, hold still, stick your arm out.”

Eddie dutifully complied, and Richie gently threaded the stick down the cast. Eddie nearly moaned in relief as he wiggled it around, itching over the interminably itchy spots inside the cast. Richie’s elbow was in his face, and then his hair was in his face, but Eddie didn’t really care about the awkward position as long as Richie kept doing _that_.

“Here, hang on,” Richie grumbled. He pulled the stick out and Eddie whined at its absence. But Richie was just repositioning them, sliding in to sit behind Eddie, long legs flopping on either side of him.

“_There_,” Richie said, satisfied, as he now scratched unencumbered inside Eddie’s cast. Eddie moaned and flopped his head back on Richie’s chest. He wanted to take back every time he’d ever called Richie stupid. Richie was a damned genius.

But he couldn’t say that, of course, so instead he settled with:

“_Fuck_, thanks. Careful, don’t break it off inside.”

“I’m not going to break it off,” Richie mumbled. Eddie knew if he could see his face he’d see Richie’s tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration.

* * *

Eddie yawned, stretching before he felt the tell-tale sway of the hammock and stopped himself. He blinked his eyes open… just to be confronted with Richie’s boney ankle, inches from his nose. Eddie stilled, glancing over at Richie. He wasn’t looking at him, face buried in a comic book. Eddie could barely see his mop of curly hair above the pages. Eddie snickered silently to himself. Quietly he glanced around the clubhouse, checking to see where the other Losers were. To his surprise, they seemed to be all alone. Oh, he could hear Mike and Bill, talking somewhere up and out, but in the clubhouse itself, underground, it was just Eddie and Richie, right now.

Gently, carefully, Eddie leaned his head forward just a matter of inches. Just enough so that Richie’s ankle was _just_ in reach. Then, checking one last time to make sure Richie was engrossed with his comic book, Eddie stuck his tongue out and licked a firm stripe up the side of Richie’s ankle.

Richie jumped a foot, upending both himself and Eddie from the hammock (poor planning, on Eddie’s part). But the _screech_ he emitted, like a fucking _pterodactyl_. Eddie was laughing even as he was sprawled on the floor, even as Richie crawled on top of him and started slapping the shit out of his head.

“Kaspbrak! I’ll kill you! What the fuck! What the fuck! How could _you_ lick _my_ ankle?! You don’t know where it’s been!”

“Yeah,” Eddie wheezed, “But… my… mother has.”

“Fuck you!” Richie shouted, but it was a _laugh_, it was a gut-wrenching _laugh _as he collapsed on top of Eddie, shaking with it. “I’m going to spit in your hair while you’re sleeping,” Richie threatened.

“Whatever, dude,” Eddie sighed, laying back against the dirt, staring up at Richie on top of him. Richie folded his hands under his chin, resting them on Eddie’s chest. “After It, fuck it. I don’t even care.”

Richie’s fingers were tracing funny patterns on Eddie’s chest. “Eh, sure you do. You still use your inhaler.”

“Sometimes,” Eddie agreed. He tilted his head and looked at Richie. “You know: I never knew you were afraid of clowns before.”

“What?”

“Well like… everyone knows I hate. Germs and… stuff. And Bill, it’s all Georgie. Mike, it was his parents and the fire, you know. But I didn’t know you were scared of clowns.”

Richie shrugged. “It never came up.”

Eddie wasn’t even sure what he was getting it. Hadn’t even really thought about it that much. But now, with just them, in a haze of just-waking and mid-afternoon, cool air of the hideout stirring little dust motes in the glinting sunlight… it was something. Eddie looked at Richie, like he was trying to figure something out. Didn’t know what he was even trying.

Richie’s fingers kept swirling patterns on Eddie’s chest.

“Hey losers! You done napping like old ladies?”

Richie’s head immediately popped up from Eddie’s chest: “You talking about your mother’s vagina or us?”

“For fuck’s sake, Trashmouth,” Mike’s voice grumbled.

Richie shoved himself off Eddie and the moment was gone. Whatever Eddie’s brain had been figuring out, or figuring out that it was figuring out, swirled away like dust motes in the sunlight.

He didn’t think twice about taking Richie’s hand when he extended it to help Eddie up. Didn’t think twice about the fact that Richie would do it, or that he would take it.

* * *

Eddie circled his bike in front of Richie’s house, feeling like a total stalker. But Richie was fucking _avoiding_ him, Eddie _knew_ it. He just couldn’t figure out _why_.

He should just go up and bang on the door and demand Richie come out and play. Or fight. They’d smack each other around, Richie would tell Eddie he fucked his mom, and then everything would be _fine_.

Eddie circled on his bike, again and again, jaw working as he stared daggers at the Tozier home front door.

“Just go up,” Eddie mumbled to himself. “Just ring the bell.”

His bike tires crunched softly over smooth asphalt as he circled, and circled, and circled.

A half hour of this and the Tozier front door opened. Eddie skidded mid-circle, trying to change directions and pedal away, then falling over, kicking his leg down just in time to prevent another broken arm (he had no interest in ever doing that again. One time was enough, thanks).

It wasn’t Richie, though. It was his big sister, Julie. She was a senior this year and looked basically like an adult, to Eddie’s still-waiting-for-that-growth-spurt eyes. Eddie gulped and waited as she stalked down their front walk directly for him. She stopped on the sidewalk and crossed her arms, waiting.

Eddie swung his leg over the frame of his bike and walked it dutifully up to the sidewalk. He looked up at Julie.

“Uh…”

“He’s not coming out,” Julie told him. She was chewing gum.

Eddie’s brain kind of… went all staticy. There were a thousand possible ways to go—was Richie mad at him? Upset? Sick? Working on schoolwork? Nah, couldn’t be the last one—but he didn’t have any reason to go with any options so he just kind of. Ground to a halt.

“What?”

“He says he’s not coming out. He’s in his room playing video games and he says he doesn’t want to see you.”

On his Super Nintendo system, Eddie knew. Richie had gotten it last Christmas from his folks. The best gift of the Losers club. Richie always kicked his ass on it, on every game he had.

Eddie’s heart churned in his chest.

“Is he sick?” Eddie finally asked, because it was the only thing that made sense to him.

Julie blew a bubble of pink gum slowly, slowly. It popped, and she chewed it back into her mouth. Eddie stared at her with his eyebrows drawn together, lips parted, utterly confused by his current lot.

“Nah,” Julie finally said, jawing at her gum.

Eddie smacked at his handlebars. The gesture took him off guard in its ferocity. He was… he was so _mad_ with Richie, what the fuck?! Why was he doing this?

Waiting for a response and not getting one, Julie heaved a senior girl’s sigh, complete with exaggerated eye roll. She shrugged and turned away.

“Wait!”

What was he supposed to say, though? He didn’t know why Richie was avoiding him, so he didn’t know how to make it up to him. Julie had turned, barely, back to him, and was waiting impatiently.

“Yah?”

“Tell him ‘Losers never die,’” Eddie finally said. He nodded, heart clenched tight in his chest. “Tell him that.”

Julie shrugged and disappeared back into the Tozier house. Eddie wasn’t even sure Julie would give the message to her brother. She wasn’t mean or anything, but it’s not like her and Richie were super close, either. And she was a senior girl. Who _knows_ what they did or why they did it. They were as inscrutable as… as… well. As _Richie_ was being right now! Go figure.

Three days, four. Eddie was going _crazy_. So crazy he actually _sneaked out_ of his house after his mommy went to bed and pedaled over to Richie’s house, again. Except this time, instead of circling the block, he hopped the curb and rode his bike around the back of the house, straight to Richie’s bedroom window. Out of his fanny pack he pulled half a dozen rocks he’d hand-selected over the course of the day to be perfectly suited for his needs. Carefully he flicked the first one at the window. It tapped just loud enough to be heard, but didn’t seem to do any damage to the window. Eddie grinned.

“_Psst! Richie!_”

He waited a minute. Then he picked up another rock and tossed it. _Tck!_ Eddie waited, watching carefully for any sign of movement behind the illuminated curtains.

“_Richie! Psst! Richie_!”

The curtains fluttered and the window threw itself open. Eddie dropped the rest of his rocks and beamed.

“Richie!”

“I can’t believe you actually said ‘psst.’”

Eddie scoffed, affronted. “What the hell am I supposed to say?”

“You’re supposed to make a noise with your mouth that _sounds_ like ‘pssst’ but isn’t the _word_ ‘psst,’ duh.”

Eddie thought about this for two seconds, eyebrows furrowed deep. Then his expression opened. “That’s the same fucking thing!”

“No it’s not!”

“Yes it is! That’s like saying ‘you’re supposed to make the sound ‘dog’ but not actually say the word ‘dog.’”

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is! Words are just _sounds we make, Richie_!”

“Where’d you learn that, advanced math?”

Eddie laughed sharply. “Oh my _gosh_ is this because I’m in that math class and you’re stuck in remedial?”

“It’s not remedial!”

“It fucking is, you nearly failed last year. Would’ve if I didn’t let you cheat off me on the last test.”

“You didn’t let me do shit, Eddie, I cheated all myself.”

“Fucking ‘kay.” Eddie rolled his eyes. Then he stopped and grinned. “Lemme in?”

Richie hesitated, pulling back from where he was leaning through his window frame. He glanced back into his room, then back outside. Eddie frowned. This wasn’t because of some stupid math class. Richie normally woulda been dragging Eddie into his bedroom window, before Eddie even could tell him to be careful of rusty window frames and tetanus.

Eddie took a step closer to the window. To Richie.

“Hey, dude. If you hate remedial so much I could help you with your homework, you know? If it’s bugging you.”

“Math is bullshit anyway, I’m never gonna use this shit,” Richie swore.

Eddie didn’t agree, but now wasn’t the time for that argument. He thought that was pretty mature of himself, for recognizing that.

“Riiichieee,” Eddie whined, softly. He took another step forward and tried his best puppy dog eyes. He even made his lower lip tremble.

Richie snorted, ducking his head. When he looked back up he pushed his glasses back up his nose. He was smiling like he couldn’t help it. Like he didn’t even want to, but he had to. Eddie smirked. There’s the trick.

“_Fine_,” Richie grumbled. He leaned forward and stuck out an arm. “C’mon, ya spazz.”

Eddie clasped Richie’s arm and allowed himself to be hauled into Richie’s bedroom. It was a gross mess, as per usual. There was a level of Mario paused on the little 6x6 TV he’d bought off his sister last year when she got a new one for her birthday. Eddie smacked at Richie’s arm.

“Ey, c’mon, plug me in.”

Richie sighed the sigh of the long-suffering kid who was the only one in the neighborhood to have an SNES. But he complied, plugging in the player two controller and backing out of the level so they could start together.

“You’re totally messing up my game,” he told Eddie.

“There’s _four_ save slots,” Eddie told him. “You only need one.”

Richie grumbled, but he was smiling as the two-player screen loaded up. They played a few levels back and forth barely paying attention, until Richie got them through the warp zone on level two and jumped them ahead to the ice level.

“You only love me for my SNES,” Richie commented.

Eddie frowned and pretended to think about this a long time. “Nah, there’s probably like, _one_ other redeeming quality you got. Somewhere.”

“Yeah, in my _pants_!” Richie declared, grabbing at his dick. Eddie rolled his eyes but couldn’t help but smile. Fucking Richie Tozier.

“That’s not what my mother said,” Eddie shot back.

Richie laughed, rolling over on his side and totally letting Mario die on one of those “the screen is gonna catch you,” bullshit levels.

For one night, it felt like old times again. Richie shoved his shoulder into Eddie’s while they played video games. When their eyes were blurring and Eddie’s fingers were going numb they shut the TV and Richie grabbed a stack of comic books from his desk, tossing half at Eddie as they clambered into Richie’s bed.

They laid toe-to-head, reading comic books propped up in bed together. When they were done with one issue they would swap, so then they both read it. Eddie was just finishing an issue about Captain America and his sexy lady partner Diamondback when he glanced up and realized Richie had fallen asleep.

He should probably go home to his mommy. She’d kill him if he was out all night. Well, start a search party, then kill him. Then wrap him in bubble wrap again, like the summer after It.

Instead, Eddie crawled up to the head of the bed where Richie was dozing and tugged his glasses gently, gently from his face, setting them down on the dresser next to the bed. Then he flicked off the lamp on the dresser, plunging the room into darkness punctuated only by the faint glow of the streetlights outside. When he rolled back, Richie was _right_ there, drooling lovingly on his pillow. Eddie snorted and laid down next to him (steering clear of the drool) and allowed himself to drift off. He had a vague memory, just before he fell completely asleep, of Richie rolling against him, arms wrapped around his back. It felt so good and safe that Eddie had no hope of staying awake long enough to remember it happening.

* * *

Three weeks later and Eddie was ready to send Richie Tozier straight to fucking hell.

“What the fuck is your _problem_, Richie?” Eddie shoved him, hard. Richie shoved him back.

“Jenny Kirtzpatrick is my _fucking problem_!” Richie screeched.

“What the fuck is your problem with Jenny Kirtzpatrick?!” Eddie squeaked.

“She fucking _likes you_, like a fucking _girl_.”

Eddie threw his hands up. “What the fuck am I supposed to do about that?!?”

“Tell her to _fuck off_!”

Bill took a step forward. “Hey, g-g-guys, look-”

“Fuck off, Bill,” Eddie snapped.

“Yeah, go fuck your mother,” Richie told him without taking his eyes off Eddie.

Mike stepped between them. “What’s even the problem here? Do you like Jenny, Richie?”

“Fuck no!” Richie shouted.

Eddie waved his arms. “Then what the fuck do you care?”

“She’s trying to get in your pants!”

“So _what_?!” Eddie’s voice cracked. He hated that. Yay puberty and growth spurt (though he felt like he’d never catch up to Richie, who just kept growing and growing) but boo to all this other bullshit like cracking voices and smelly armpits.

“So what?! You need to tell her to back off!”

Eddie looked around frantically, trying to see if the other boys (and Bev) had any idea what the _fuck_ Richie’s deal was. Was Eddie the crazy one? No way, right?

Mike and Bill were mostly just trying to keep them separated. Stan had his arms crossed and was rolling his eyes at them. Ben was hanging back, confused. Bev was… staring at Richie. Eddie couldn’t figure out why Bev was staring at Richie. Did she like him? Nah, Bev was all moony over Bill. So was he crazy, or wasn’t he?

“I don’t even like her,” Eddie explained, suddenly feeling weak and defensive for who the hell knows why.

“Then tell her to fuck off!”

Eddie squinted at Richie’s eyes behind those coke bottle glasses.

“What if I did like her?”

He didn’t know why he said it. He regretted it the second it left his mouth. It was, for some reason Eddie didn’t understand but could feel in his bones, the very worst thing he could have said.

Richie’s face went slack with shock and something else. The utter destruction of hope, somehow. Then it twisted up in a howl and Richie launched himself at Eddie.

They fell to the street _hard_, Eddie’s elbows losing their top ten layers of skin immediately. This wasn’t a playfight, this was _real_, this was Richie trying to _hurt_ Eddie. And of course he was still bigger and stronger. He had always been bigger and stronger.

Eddie screamed and bucked his hips, catching Richie just off-guard enough that he managed to scramble from under him. Eddie threw a wild punch and it actually landed a glancing blow, striking Richie’s glasses from his face.

“Fuck you!” Richie screamed, throwing his own punch in return. It landed true, a sudden blossom of pain in Eddie’s left cheek. His head whipped to the side, he almost fell, before he turned and threw himself forward at Richie, punches flying anywhere he could land them.

Mike and Bill were on both of them, yanking them apart. Richie snapped at Eddie like a wild animal, and Eddie _still didn’t understand why they were fucking fighting_! He didn’t _actually _like Jenny Kirtzpatrick, he didn’t like _any_ of the girls in their grade, and _so fucking what if he did_?!

“You’re just jealous Jenny doesn’t like _you_!” Eddie spit.

“How could I be jealous of Jenny when I fuck your mom every night?” Richie snapped back.

“Fucking dick!”

“_Mother fucking asswipe_!” Richie shouted.

“What even is your _malfunction_, Richie?!” Eddie screamed. “You fucking abandon me for weeks at a time, then we play video games like nothing happened, and then you’re freaking out again, talking shit to Bill and Stan like I fucked your sister behind your back. One day we’re playing Street Fighter and watching a movie and it’s just like when we were twelve, and then for the next week you act like I don’t even fucking exist.”

Bill was holding Eddie back, so Eddie couldn’t see his expression, but Stan had stayed out of it and was in clear view of Eddie. Something opened across his face, some sort of guarded realization, because his lips parted and his eyes darted over to Richie. Eddie didn’t understand it. He wanted to scream at Stan _tell me!! What _is _it?!_ But he could barely keep his eyes off Richie even long enough to notice that. All at once again his attention was on Richie and his screwed-up, red, furious face.

“You sound like a fucking girl,” Richie spat. “Maybe some of us are just growing up faster than others.”

Eddie’s heart bled open in his chest.

“Yeah, it’s probably the ones who aren’t acting like fucking three year olds,” Eddie shot back, but it had no bite. He didn’t want to hurt Richie. He just wanted it to be _normal_ again.

“Guys, you’re both acting like brats,” Bev told them.

“No one asked your opinion, Smurfette!” Richie shouted.

“Dude shut the fuck up about Bev, she’s way cooler than you’ll ever be,” Eddie told him.

“Than _I’ll_ ever be?” Richie huffed. He gestured sarcastically at himself. “_Me_? What about _you_, with your fucking _fanny pack_ in _high school_, calling your mom ‘_mommy_’, acting like such a little _bitch_-”

“I saved us from the monster!” Eddie shouted. “I killed that fucking clown, and I had a fucking broken arm when I did, so what the fuck are you even trying to prove, Richie-scared-of-clowns.”

“At least a fucking clown tried to _eat us_ and I’m scared of _that_ instead of make-believe little bugs you can’t even _see_.”

“Germs are real! Germs are real!” Eddie’s voice landed someone in the region of castrati. “What the fuck, just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not real, you fucking moron!”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck _you!_”

“Fuck _this_!” Mike shouted. “Listen, I came out because you guys said we were doing something fun today, not watch Abbott and Costello have a pissing contest.”

“He _wishes_ he was Costello,” Richie snapped. Eddie threw out his arms in utter bafflement.

“Why the fuck would I want to be the second man in the Richie Tozier show? He can do it his fucking self.”

“Fine!”

“_Fine_!”

They both stared at each other, glaring hard. After a moment Eddie stepped back, frowning. He gestured vaguely.

“I thought you were going to storm off.”

“I’m not fucking storming off; _you _storm off.”

“You’re the one who started the fight!” Eddie exclaimed. “You’re the one who should storm off! There wouldn’t even be a fight to storm off from if you didn’t…” he couldn’t even remember what the stupid fight was about.

“They were my friends first!” Richie insisted.

“Oh my _gosh_, I met you in _third grade_, I’m an original Loser as much as anyone else-”

“Not-uh! It’s me, Stan, and Bill. You’re just as new as Ben or Bev or Mike.”

“That’s objectively not true! That’s objectively not true! They joined when we were thirteen years old! That’s five years after I joined! I joined when we were eight, which is three years after you all met in kindergarten. That’s forty percent more time passing between me and you guys knowing each other versus them joining the gang!”

“Stop making up numbers,” Richie sneered. Eddie goggled.

“Those are the right numbers! Those are the right numbers, what the fuck are you even talking about!”

“Just because I’m not in fucking _college_ math-”

“It’s _normal_ for our grade level, _Richie_, you’re just in _remedial_-”

“Fuck you you fucking cocksucking asswipe,” Richie hissed, and it wasn’t. It wasn’t _loud_. It was _low_, and it was _angry_. It pulled Eddie up short.

Richie spun around and now he did finally stomp off, open Hawaiian shirt fluttering in the hot summer breeze. Eddie stared after him, palms open at his sides, jaw dropped. He turned to scoff with the other Losers, only to find them all avoiding eye contact with him. He turned to Stan, sure to find one ally with him, but Stan was staring off after Richie, mouth screwed up.

With a growl Eddie spun around in a direct mirror of Richie and stormed off the opposite direction. Fuck them all. They could suck his dick. And Richie Tozier could be first in line.

* * *

Eddie lifted a hand to his eyes and squinted up at the good climbing tree, golden in the afternoon light. He couldn’t _see_ anything... but... Eddie cupped his hands to his mouth. 

“Richie!” 

Nothing. Eddie waited a minute then tried again. 

“Richie! Bill told me. Richie, c’mon.”

Was that the barest hint of movement? Were those leaves fluttering because of the breeze or because a teenaged boy shifted to listen to his ex-friend?

Grumbling to himself, Eddie grabbed hold of the lowest branch and started the arduous process of hauling himself up into the tree. 

“I’m coming up!” he warned. The bark dig into his palms. “I swear to fuck if you’re not up there I’m gonna find out where you _are_ and give you the spanking of a lifetime you dweeb!”

A soft snort. Eddie grinned. Found you. 

Richie was hiding on the other side of the trunk, at the juncture of two thick branches that nearly touched. Eddie kicked him away from the trunk, forcing him out onto the limbs so he could sit with his back to the trunk himself. Eddie grabbed for his inhaler and breathed twice as he settled in. Richie rolled his eyes but said nothing. That’s how Eddie knew it was serious. 

Ripping a piece of bark off the tree, Eddie hucked it at Richie’s face. Richie cried out in dismay but Eddie didn’t give him the chance to pretend to be hurt. 

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me, you asshole?”

Richie shrugged and looked away. Bullshit. 

“I had to hear it from fucking Bill?? What, were you never going to tell me? Was I gonna go over to your house one afternoon and knock on your window only for some other kid to stick his neck out? What if it’s a girl’s bedroom after yours, Richie! I’d get arrested for attempted B and E! They’d think I was a peeping Tom, Richie!”

That made Richie giggle, at least. Eddie kicked his legs and Richie kicked back, and for a half second it felt like the hammock again, like old times. But then Richie’s expression fell. He looked out over the forest around them, then turned back to Eddie.

“C’mon. Mom’s making dinner, doesn’t want me to be late.”

Reluctantly Eddie climbed down, turning back over and over again to make sure this wasn’t a trick, that Richie really was following him. He jumped down from the branch and turned to watch Richie jump down and land beside him. Richie brushed off his knees and started walking for town. Eddie hurried alongside him in tense silence.

“We can be pen pals,” Eddie offered, voice small. He felt like such a dork for even suggesting it, but his stomach was all twisted up in knots ever since Bill let slip this afternoon that Richie’s family was moving away and he didn’t know how to make that feeling _go away_. The only way it could really go away would be if Richie stayed. But maybe he could mitigate it by having Richie promise to stay in touch. To be in Eddie’s life, somehow.

But Richie shook his head, scowling down at his feet as they trudged along the dirt floor of the woods outside of town. Eddie rushed forward and stopped short directly in front of Richie’s face. Richie had to stop, which he did, reluctantly. He raised his head with a sigh.

“Get out of my way, Kaspbrak.”

“No. Not until we talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Richie tried to shove past Eddie, but in a fit of bravery Eddie grabbed him and pushed him back. Richie glowered.

“_Yes_, there _is_. We’ve known each other since the third grade, man! That’s like, more than half my fucking life! And what are you going to do, you’re gonna leave me without saying a fucking _word_?”

“I’m not _leaving you_,” Richie growled. “Stop making it sound like we’re… like we’re fucking faggots, Eddie! We’re not dating and you’re not my fucking girlfriend! I don’t have to tell you shit!”

“Yes you do! You do have to tell me shit because after everything, after I killed a fucking clown for you, Richie, you have to tell me shit!”

Eddie was crying. He really, really hated that he was crying. But he could seem to stop, so he just kept screaming at Richie and hoped he wouldn’t notice.

“You tell Bill before you tell me, and I’m the one who’s your best friend! You don’t even _like_ Bill, you like _me_. It wasn’t Bill who carted me around all summer when my arm was broken. Bill doesn’t get two ice cream cones because you always forget to save your lunch money to spend on them. You and Bill don’t have sleepovers together, alone. You and fucking Bill didn’t run the great Twister racket of eighty-six, when Bill and Stan were too dumb to join forces and outflank us on games night. It’s _you and me_, Rich. Or it used to be.” Eddie shoved his fists in his eyes, trying to plug up the stupid fucking tears. His chest heaved brokenly.

“You sound fucking gay,” Richie said, but Eddie looked at him, and Richie was crying too.

Eddie fell forward, grabbing Richie by his shirt and pulling him into a rib-crunching hug. Richie bent his head and cried into the crook of Eddie’s neck: loud, broken sobs, wails of grief. Eddie slapped his back, and Richie slapped his, and they clung to each other as they cried.

Eddie started to pull back but Richie wouldn’t let him, clinging to his shirt.

“Hey, Richie, hey,” Eddie cooed, trying to comfort him.

“No, _no_,” Richie growled.

“No, dude, yeah, hey. It’s okay, I know.”

“It’s not _fucking okay_!”

And then Richie socked Eddie right in the jaw.

Eddie fell flat on his ass, seeing spots. He growled and leapt forward, grabbing for Richie’s legs and dragging him down to the forest floor with him. The tussled, Eddie having the upper hand for all of half a second and sending Richie’s glasses flying; Richie grabbing him and flipping him so hard the wind knocked out of him, landing three more vicious punches to Eddie’s face.

Eddie cried out and covered himself, moaning pitifully. “Richie, fuck, Richie, stop! Ow, fucking ow, Richie!”

Richie fell off him, landing on his haunches and scrambling to put some distance between them. They stared at each other across the distance of a few feet between them, gulf feeling like it was now miles long. Richie’s face was tear-stained and dirty. Eddie imagined his probably looked the same, except with more bruising and blood. Eddie reached up to dab at his nose, wincing as his fingers came away bloody.

“What the _fuck_, Richie?” Eddie shouted.

Richie dropped his head in his hands, sobbing brokenly. Eddie rolled his eyes as he tried to clean himself up. His shirt was a lost cause, thanks, Richie. It was a fucking cool Batman shirt, too.

“Just write me a fucking letter from your new address, you fucking dick,” Eddie told him once he thought he got the worst of the blood off his face. His mom was going to kill him. He wanted to kill Richie. Lots of murderous sentiment all around.

“Fuck you,” Richie said, but he was sobbing as he said it.

“Fuck you too, man.” Eddie stood up and walked past Richie. “Fuck you too.”

_Three Cubed is Twenty-Seven_

_“You got married? To a woman?”_

Back at the B&B, after they’d all agreed to stay, Richie slapped his hand to Eddie’s shoulder, too damn hard, but Eddie laughed and punched him back. It felt good, it felt... normal. Eddie smiled up at those eyes still ridiculously magnified behind those fucking stupid glasses. Hadn’t Richie heard of LASIK? Or were they part of his on stage “persona”. 

“So you really went and got yourself hitched?”

Eddie laughed, tugging his phone out of his back pocket to share the obligatory photos. “Yeah, I really did. Her name’s Myra...”

Richie wasn’t even looking down at the phone. Instead he was smiling at Eddie, eyes searching his face like he was looking for something. Or remembering something, which Eddie supposed they all were. 

“To a woman?”

A jolt of fear went through Eddie’s gut, because Richie’s voice had lost the loud brashness of his ribbing tone. A jolt of fear, and hurt. What the fuck, Tozier? 

Eddie brushed off the feeling with a laugh. “Yeah, Richie. What, did you really think I was going to turn out gay? You know, it’s not gay to like things clean. Do you know it’s not gay to shower?” Eddie grabbed Richie’s shoulder, probably too hard. He stared seriously into Richie’s stupid, thick glasses. “It’s important to me that you know this, Richie.”

Richie slapped his hand on Eddie’s shoulder and now they were doing a weird, arm’s-length hug. Richie ducked his head (fuck you, Tozier) to look Eddie full in the eyes. With the full gravity he never gave even discussions of It, he whispered: “did our wedding under the jungle gym mean _nothing_ to you?”

Eddie broke first, but Richie was right there a second later, and then they were hugging, hanging on each other’s shoulders as they shook with laughter.

“Fuck you, Tozier.”

“Fuck you, Eds. Alright, lemme see her. Can’t believe you went and got married, could you be any gayer?”

“Getting married to a woman?” Eddie passed his phone to Richie, wedding photos dutifully brought up. “Guess you didn’t go to college, huh?”

“San Diego _State_!” Richie hollered as he flipped through the photos. Something peculiar was happening to his expression, but Eddie couldn’t figure out what.

“So uh, Eds…” he blinked and glanced up at Eddie. “I can’t believe you went and married your mom out from under me like that. Fucking dick move, bro.”

“Man, fuck you,” Eddie grumbled, snatching his phone back.

“No no, they’re beautiful photos. Hey, how’d you colorize them so naturally from the black and whites-”

“Very funny,” Eddie grumbled.

“I mean it, I’m jealous! You finding out what it’s like to fuck your mother before I ever did-”

“You’re a shit, you’re a little shit and you always have been-” Eddie huffed, but Richie’s good humor was rubbing off on him, like it always did eventually.

Richie shoved his hands in his pockets, smiling at Eddie. Eddie smiled back, for wont of anything else to do. Slowly Richie’s expression fell, and he sniffed, mouth twisting in annoyance.

“Bullshit about Stan.”

Eddie sighed, knife twisting in his gut. Last week he hadn’t even remembered who Stan was: it shouldn’t matter to find out he was dead. But now. Now he _remembered_. A whole childhood worth of memories, of the nice kid, the only Jewish kid he knew (until Eddie had moved to New York, of course), the kid who was always annoyed with Richie and Eddie’s constant bickering.

“Yeah. Yeah. Fucking bullshit,” Eddie agreed.

There was a moment of silence between them, like they were saying a prayer for him. Or whatever the Jewish equivalent was—kaddish? Eddie thought he remembered that from somewhere, picked it up in New York, but he wasn’t sure if that was exactly right. His eyebrows drew together as he remembered the kid whose swings they’d played on, who Richie was always arguing with, who helped defeat this monster fucking clown with them when they were just children.

Footsteps above their head in the B&B. Both them glanced up, listening to the soft tread of relatively dainty feet over wood floors. They glanced at each other, heads tilted back.

_Bev_? Eddie mouthed.

“What’s that, Eds?” Richie _shouted_. “You think _Bev_ is sneaking around trying to get her hole filled?”

Eddie put his face in his hands and the creaking upstairs abruptly stilled, before: “I’m getting a fucking glass of water, Trashmouth! Go to bed!”

Richie snorted and shared another look with Eddie, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically. Eddie rolled his eyes and shoved him away. “You should go to bed. Who the fuck knows when we’ll get to sleep again?”

“Alright, _loser_,” Richie grumbled. He made a big show of glancing around. “So which room is your mom in? If you could just point me in the right direction…”

“Fuck you, man.”

“Fuck you later!”

* * *

It was three am (“_the witching hour!”_ Richie used to tease him, Eddie remembered now. Except it wasn’t, midnight was the witching hour. Well, that was Trashmouth, for you) and Eddie couldn’t sleep. Because of course he couldn’t fucking sleep, he was in town to kill a murderous, child-killing clown made of fucking magic, or whatever. The clown that had nearly killed them all twenty-seven years ago, and even today, twenty-seven years later, had managed to take one of their own through pure terror alone.

Fucking bullshit. He should just pack up and leave. Eddie sighed and walked downstairs, out to the front porch in his flip-flops, sweatpants, and NYC Firefighters shirt he had won in some 9/11 rescue workers charity fun run, or something. He couldn’t remember.

“’ey, Eds. Up late?”

Eddie nodded at Richie, not missing a beat, “fucking your mom,” he said, though he yawned on “mom”, kind of ruining the effect. Oh well.

“Yeah I was listening,” Richie said, then scrunched up his face. Eddie laughed, walking over to join him on the porch swing. Their shoulders brushed, raising goosebumps on Eddie’s arms in the chilly night air.

“You liked that? Listening to me fucking your mom?”

“She’s a special lady and by the looks of you you’re what we’d call in LA a ‘service bottom.’’”

Eddie laughed too loud at that for the late hour, slapping hands over his mouth belatedly and shaking with repressed laughter. Richie’s face scrunched with the smile of a job well done as they leaned against each other and giggled as quietly as they could manage. After a long minute Richie recovered and pulled a flask out of his jacket, taking a swig from it. Eddie pushed his toe on the porch, giving their swing a little back and forth motion as they listened to the cacophony of the summer crickets out in full force.

Eddie glanced over at Richie, taking in his jeans, t-shirt, and jacket, paired with bare feet (gross).

“Why are you dressed? Were you leaving?”

“Nah,” Richie sighed, tucking the flask between his legs. “We promised Bill and Mike, right?”

“Well, sure, but…” Eddie trailed off. The unsaid _Stan promised, too_, hung heavy between them.

Richie kicked his ridiculously long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles.

“It’s because I sleep in the _nude_, Eddie my dear. If you must know.”

Eddie snorted and shoved his shoulder into Richie’s. But Richie just looked over at him and raised an eyebrow above his glasses. Eddie sputtered. “What?”

“Not all of us have bespoke pajama sets,” Richie pointed out. Then he frowned at Eddie. “Actually, I’m kind of disappointed you’re _not_ in some ridiculous silk PJ set. With like, your initials embroidered on the breast pocket and all.”

“I’m not… Ebenezer Scrooge,” Eddie grumbled. He glanced down at his sweatpants and t-shirt. “And what? It’s comfortable.”

“Freeballing?”

Eddie snorted and smacked Richie upside the head. “Fuck off.”

“Make me.”

They slapped gently at each other, too tired to make it a real fight, too wired not to fight. Eventually Richie’s hands fell to fiddle with his flask, thumb running over the rim. After a minute he grabbed the flask and raised it.

“To Stan,” Richie toasted, before tipping his head back and taking a long draught from his flask.

Richie bumped his shoulder into Eddie’s and held out the flask. Eddie steeled himself and took a swig from it, not imagining backwash or germs or the fact that Richie probably had never washed it in whoever knows how long he’d owned it. As he passed it back he caught a glimpse of Richie’s pleasantly surprised face, eyes glittering beneath those still too-massive glasses.

“Good boy.”

“Shut up, you dick,” Eddie grumbled. But he leaned a little more relaxed against Richie’s shoulder, and after a moment Richie lifted his arm and wrapped it around Eddie’s back. They sat in silence for a shocking amount of time, like, a whole thirty seconds, maybe even a minute. Richie was the first to break it, of course.

“Hey, you know, if I die-”

“Jesus, Rich-”

“No no, listen.” Richie tucked his chin to look down at Eddie. “This is important. You know what they say about the Pacific?”

Eddie frowned, thinking. “Uh… it’s cold?”

“No, no.” Richie’s voice was low, serious. “They say it has no memory. That’s where I want to live the rest of my life. A warm place with no memory.”

Eddie squinted. Wait a minute, wasn’t… “That’s a movie quote.”

“Get busy living or get busy dying, Red.”

“That’s _Shawshank_, you fuck.”

“Promise me, Red,” Richie gasped, holding Eddie tight. “Promise me when we make it out of here, you’ll find the beach. Out there I’ve-”

Eddie burst into giggles, and Richie trailed off, overcome with giggles himself. They bent over each other, Richie on top of Eddie, shaking hard as they tried to laugh silently so as not to wake the others. Eventually Eddie wiped tears from his eyes and shoved Richie off him. Richie sprawled out on the porch swing, arm over the back of it, smiling softly at Eddie.

“Alright, I should try and get a few hours,” Eddie said, pushing off. “God knows this fucking murderous clown isn’t going to let us get a lot of sleep.”

“Yeah, he’s an inconsiderate bitch like that, interrupting your eight hours,” Richie agreed.

Eddie waved vaguely. “Night, Richie.”

“Sleep tight, Eds.”

_After_

Stan was on his way. Now that It was gone and the sins from his most recent cycle reversed (Bill freaked out that six-year-old hugging him and crying into his hair. They had to gently pull him away and let the kid get on his merry way), Stan was coming to Derry to officially reunite the Losers, as they should be. Mike picked him up from the airport and he shared tearful hugs with most of the members. Richie shook him roughly and yelled at him and then hugged him the longest.

They ate dinner at an Olive Garden—not Chinese, never again Chinese—with Stan now properly filling out the circle at the table. Except unlike last time, Eddie sat next to Richie without Stan’s chair between them. He still didn’t understand everything that went wrong when they were teenagers, but they’d settled into each other again like before that, like when they were Losers and children, easy partners in a way Eddie didn’t know he had missed with his entire soul. When Richie made some terrible joke at Stan’s expense, Eddie laughed with his whole body, slapping his hand on Richie’s shoulder as tears squeezed from his eyes.

Stan was making a _face_ at Richie—Stan was always making a face at Richie—but then something clicked and he gasped, smile slowly creeping up his lips. His eyes flickered between Richie and Eddie.

Then he totally changed the subject and turned to Bev and Ben.

“So you two losers finally got together,” Stan observed. Eddie slid his hand from Richie’s shoulder as he leaned forward, waiting to see where this would go. He didn’t notice Richie going stiff beside him.

Bev ducked her chin and smiled, Ben blushing brighter than her hair.

“Oh well, you know…” Bev mumbled. “How many people help you murder an evil space clown?”

Stan hummed thoughtfully at that, leaning back in his chair.

“Well shit, if that’s our criterion for dating, I think the rest of our options our pretty limited,” Stan observed.

Richie’s leg twitched violently, smacking into Eddie’s under the table. Eddie glanced at him—to make sure he wasn’t choking or something—but he was fine, just. Listening, like everyone else.

(Eddie should have realized then. Richie never _listened_.)

But Bill and Mike were giggling along with Stan. Bill nodded at Mike.

“Yeah, w-what are w-we going to do? Ben took the only g-girl.”

Bev pouted mightily at being reduced to “the girl” but Mike laughed and put his chin on his hands and patted his eyes at Bill.

“I dunno Bill: want to give it a go?”

Bill laughed and threw a breadstick at Mike, who caught it and took a bite out of it.

And then Stan turned to Richie. “Dude, you’re not going to get in on this?”

Richie laughed nervously. “What, trying to woo Bill? No thanks, I’m more into brunettes.”

Then Richie spluttered and grabbed for his drink, downing it in a couple of gulps. Eddie squinted at him.

“Wait a minute… Were you cheating on my mom?”

Richie’s expression was blank, until he finally managed to get out: “I’m talking about the carpet, Eds. Didn’t match the drapes.”

They laughed at that, but it was kind of weak. Then Mike started to talk about the places he had top of his list to see after Derry and the group offered their informed (or otherwise) yea or nay opinions on each location (the pyramids were yea. The Eiffel tower was a nay).

Eddie used the bathroom before they all left to head back to the B&B and was wiping his hands on his slacks (honestly, those air dryers were germ machines, fuck the environment). When he walked back through the restaurant he noticed it was just Stan and Richie standing by the table, in some sort of… serious conversation? Nah, couldn’t be the case. It was Richie, after all. And Stan, who had a zero-tolerance trigger for Richie’s bullshit.

“-face your fears,” Stan was saying as Eddie walked up behind Richie. He nodded between them.

“What’s up?”

“My dick when I see your mom,” Richie replied by instinct.

Eddie snorted. “You girls planning your gay wedding or something?”

Stan grimaced and Richie’s face did… something. He shot at look at Stan that Eddie couldn’t read. Then he turned and smiled tight at Eddie.

“Yeah, and we expect the good fucking china from the registry. Don’t cheap out on us, Dr. K.”

“I’m not actually a doctor,” Eddie reminded him. “And I live in New York: you think I’ve got the scratch to spend on your gay wedding?”

“It’s just a fucking ‘wedding’, you know, it’s the same wedding straight people get,” Richie snapped.

All three of them, Richie included, seemed taken aback by that. Richie’s eyes were wide behind his glasses and Eddie… wasn’t sure what the fuck to say to that.

Oh fuck. Was… Richie…?

Very old, very rusty gears started to painstakingly click over in Eddie’s brain.

“Anyway who the fuck says ‘scratch,’” Richie continued in a hurry. “What are you, a Dickensian orphan?”

Stan clasped Richie on the shoulder and headed to the front of the restaurant. Eddie picked up his jacket from the back of his chair, eyeing Richie curiously.

“I’m sorry, I’m still reeling from your use of the adjective ‘Dickensian,’” Eddie observed.

“Wait does it mean something other than ‘full of dicks?’ Because your mom and I-”

“Hey, Rich,” Eddie cut him off. Richie’s heart wasn’t even into it, and there was nothing sadder than a ‘your mom’ joke without heart. “Are you gay?”

Richie’s jaw worked, and Eddie had his answer.

“_You’re_ gay,” Richie shot back lamely.

Well that just wasn’t true: Eddie was married to a woman.

“It’s okay, you know,” Eddie continued, ignoring him. “I mean, I can’t imagine any of us care.” He thought about Bev and Ben. He thought about his own fears, and overcoming them. Bill’s catharsis at saving a child, just one child, from It. He smiled up at Richie. “You deserve your happy ending too, you know.”

And then Richie Tozier was kissing him.

Eddie froze.

Richie’s chin was rough against his, stubble scratching all around Eddie’s mouth. His lips were dry, chapped. He didn’t try to slip the tongue, just pressed firm to the point of it almost being painful, mouth mashed against Eddie’s. His hands had grabbed at Eddie’s face, was holding Eddie against him, which Eddie would attest to if _anyone_ ever tried to say _shit_ about this.

And then Richie pulled back and their lips disconnected with a smack, and Richie was running away.

Eddie stood in the middle of the restaurant and wondered where the fuck was the punchline.

* * *

He didn’t see Richie for half a year. Bev and Ben were trying to get everyone together for a Christmas thing (“Yes, Stan, even you. Hell, you don’t even have to beg off from family, right?”) and Eddie jumped at the chance. His parents were dead, he didn’t have any siblings, and his wife… he grimaced as he taxied on the airport tarmac and wondered if Richie was going to make it. He hadn’t said much in the group chat, just that he’d “try.” Eddie didn’t say anything directly to him, figuring anything he said would just scare Richie off. And Eddie needed Richie here at this. He needed to say these things in person, not over a text.

He was standing at baggage claim, allowing himself to be hypnotized by the baggage carousel going around and around and around when his phone dinged. He glanced at his Apple watch and saw Richie’s name and a picture. It looked like… Eddie blinked, digging for his phone. It was a picture of him. Standing at baggage claim.

Eddie spun around and saw Richie grinning nervously at him. Eddie laughed and jogged over, heart beating way too fast (120 beats per minute, according to his watch. Shh, Apple. He needed to be In the Moment).

“You fucking stalker,” Eddie said. He grabbed Richie and pulled him into a hug and felt all the tension bleed from Richie in an instant. Eddie smiled into Richie’s shoulder. Good: that had been the plan.

Richie lingered maybe a little longer than was appropriate, but Eddie let him, making no effort to pull away. Richie’s hands were strong on his back, his face buried in Eddie’s neck. Finally Richie stepped back and Eddie smiled up at him, keeping his expression open and easy. Richie was smiling down at Eddie but it was so sad, Eddie hated to see it. He wondered if he should just screw up the courage and say something now. But then Richie sniffed and smiled bigger.

“So how you doing, Eddie Spaghetti? Lots of Risks Analyzed, keeping the good people of wherever the hell safe?”

“That’s… not really what my job is,” Eddie explained, and then stopped himself from explaining further because he knew, he knew: most boring job on the planet to anyone but him (he actually really did enough the work. He was kind of insulted no one else got that. He didn’t want to be a doctor—too many fluids! Too much pressure! Risk analyst was perfect for him). “How’s Julie?”

Richie shrugged, grabbing a duffle bag at his feet and slinging it over his shoulder. “Fine. Spending Christmas with the in-laws. They love her, it’s all good.” And it meant Richie was free to attend this little Christmas get-together, of course. He pointed over Eddie’s shoulder. “Isn’t that your bag?”

Eddie glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see a bright pink or floral or some sort of ridiculous such bag, but he saw… his actual bag. He blinked and glanced back at Richie. “Holy shit, how’d you do that?”

“Because it’s both the most boring fucking bag on that carousel and also looks like it could withstand the force of an A-Bomb. Vamanos, Eds.”

Eddie jogged over to grab his bag and then back to Richie. They headed off for ground transportation together (were they going to take a cab together? Might as well, right? It’d be weird if they took separate cabs, right?).

“It actually is the highest rated luggage on the market,” Eddie explained. “It can charge your phone up to eight times, it has omni-directional wheels, and can withstand-”

“Yeah yeah, a momma elephant sitting on it or whatever, I gotchu. So what about Mrs. Kaspbrak? Spending the holidays with her family? You avoiding coming face to face with a mother in law that I can only imagine is the twin sister of your mother?”

“We’re separated.” Eddie’s heart pounded harder. He couldn’t glance down at his watch because that was the arm that was dragging his luggage, but he was sure it was elevated.

Richie was silent for a minute. Then his mouth seemed to catch up to his ears because he said, “Oh, shit. Hey, man, I’m sorry…”

“Is it, uh…” Eddie licked his lips. “Is it too much if I say it was because of you?”

Richie’s jaw worked as the silence broke between them. Eddie winced. It was probably too much, huh?”

“Jesus Christ, Eds. I give you one dry gay kiss and what, you’re dancing on a pride float? Fucking hell, who do I bill for my services. Ru Paul?”

“I didn’t say I was-” because Eddie wasn’t sure _what_ to call himself, had tried to… research… it… and come to exactly zero satisfactory conclusions. He knew he was in an unhappy marriage, he knew that he couldn’t continue to be in it as the person he was after the experiences with It, both lost and found. And he knew that he needed to see Richie again. Beyond that, he needed more data. When in doubt, gather more data.

“I _meant_, you were living your truth, you know, man? Facing your fears. And that’s a… I mean, that’s a big one, that took balls, man.”

“Huge balls. Ask-”

“My mom, yeah, I know. And that shit you said about me marrying my mom, I mean… I _didn’t_, but there was some truth to it. I had been playing it safe, you know? We all forgot what it was like to be heroes, and-”

“Okay Eddie what the fuck are you into me or not?”

The automatic doors to the taxi queue opened and they were both hit by a blast of frigid year-end Maine air. Both of them winced and stepped back, grumbling softly. Eddie sighed and ducked over to the wall next to the doors, Richie trailing after him liked a kicked puppy.

“I don’t… Look, you can’t just turn off forty years of heterosexuality like it didn’t happen. I’ve had sex with women. I’ve enjoyed sex with women!”

“Yeah so have I, it doesn’t mean I haven’t been gay for you since we were twelve.”

Eddie swallowed. “Twelve?” his voice cracked like a teenager.

Richie rolled his eyes and chucked his duffle down to the ground next to their feet. He folded his arms on top of his chest, grabbing his own elbows. “Yeah, you got a fucking problem with that?”

“I don’t have any problems with you,” Eddie promised, because no matter how inscrutable his own feelings were, that much would always be true. Richie was never the problem.

“Well?”

“Look this is…” Eddie licked his lips, eyes darting around the regional Maine airport. “It’s new for me, you know? I… I hadn’t ever thought about it, after we all forgot, you know-”

“What about before we forgot?”

“What?”

Richie stepped forward, into Eddie’s space. He dropped his arms and his hands fluttered at the edges of Eddie’s person. “What about when we were kids?”

“I… I mean, I loved you, man, you were my best friend.”

Richie’s expression crumpled. “But you weren’t secretly gay crushing on me all of puberty.”

“I don’t think so…”

Richie nodded, eyes not meeting Eddie’s. He smiled thickly after a moment. “I mean, hey. Whatever. You’re straight. It happens. It’s not like I was expecting anything, I knew you were straight, you got married, to a _woman_. So, okay, look-” he started to step back, but Eddie’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Richie startled, head jerking up to meet Eddie’s eyes. Eddie didn’t even know why he did that, but. He licked his lips again.

“I…” Eddie started, trailed off. His eyes flickered down (up) to Richie’s lips. He swallowed and tried again. “I don’t…”

“Oh, fuck this.”

Richie surged forward and grabbed Eddie’s head, pulling him in for a searing kiss. Eddie was ready for it, this time. Wanted it, even (if just to… try). His hands came up and settled on Richie’s waist, just-so-easily holding him in place as Richie smashed their mouths together. This time Richie _did_ slip him the tongue, and Eddie opened his mouth to him, sucking at Richie’s tongue and gasping into his mouth. Richie made a broken noise, hands moving back to tangle in Eddie’s neatly slicked back hair, making a mess of it, surely. Eddie turned his head, adjusting the angle, and Richie was moving them, shoving Eddie back against the wall as he kissed and kissed and kissed Eddie like a drowning man.

“Okay, okay,” Eddie breathed, breaking the kiss. He didn’t push Richie back, just needed enough space to catch his breath and try to steady his swirling thoughts. Richie didn’t pull back, running his nose against Eddie’s, breath hot on Eddie’s cheek. Eddie’s hands had drifted up to Richie’s back when Richie had shoved them against the wall, and now he let them slide forward, to Richie’s shoulders, to rub a thumb along Richie’s jaw.

Holy fucking shit. Eddie had just made out with Richie Tozier in a Maine regional airport. Eddie started laughing softly, leaning his head forward to rub against Richie’s nose. Richie broke out in a grin at the sound and started peppering little kisses all over Eddie’s face.

“Do I need to call Ru Paul? Does he owe me money for successfully converting a Straight?”

“Don’t make me think about any of that,” Eddie told him, because he was so _sick_ of trying to analyze his feelings, of trying to put labels on things and figure himself out. He just was whatever this was, right now. He’d deal with the labels later. Eddie breathed and gave Richie one last kiss. “Okay, so. I guess I’m into you.”

Richie licked a stripe clear up the center of Eddie’s face in triumph. Eddie sputtered and threw Richie off him, stumbling away from the wall.

“_Ugh_, did you just lick into my _nose_?! Richie, the _fuck_.”

“Delicious,” Richie commented, smacking his lips. Then he snaked an arm around Eddie’s waist, yanking him close. “It’s not your worst orifice I plan on putting my tongue in,” he threatened.

Eddie did _not_ have enough experience as a gay-or-maybe-bi-man to know how he felt about _that_, so he shoved Richie off him, face pinched tight. He knew he was making his “Richie just made fun of me” face, but there was nothing to be done about that.

“C’mon, let’s just.” Eddie nodded frantically at the automatic doors which were intermittently blasting cold air at them. At this rate they’d both end up with the flu. In fact, Eddie thought as he stared at Richie’s glowing face, the jerk probably had picked up a bug on his cross-country flight, not washing his hands, Eddie was _sure_ he didn’t carry a bottle of Purell with him, and now he’d passed along whatever germs were happily replicating in his mouth along to Eddie. Great.

And then Richie bent down to pick up his duffle and came up, beaming at Eddie, eyes fixed on him like he couldn’t quite believe he wasn’t dreaming, and Eddie thought, oh, well. Okay. Maybe getting the flu one year could be a fair exchange.

He’d gotten his flu shot, anyway, and it was sixty percent effective. So what were the odds?

* * *

Eddie stared glazedly at the split pea soup made from leftover Christmas ham bone balanced on a tray that Richie was carefully navigating into their shared guest bedroom.

“Richie, you don’t have to do dat,” Eddie sniffled. He tried to push himself up in bed and found himself flopping weakly against the pillows. Richie set the tray down on his side of the bed hurriedly, shushing Eddie as he rushed over to help him.

“Eddie Spaghetti, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie cooed. He lifted Eddie gently against his chest with one arm and propped his pillows up with the other so Eddie could sit up. Eddie smiled miserably at him.

“Dis is _bullshit_,” Eddie swore with much feeling.

Richie snorted as he grabbed the tray and placed it on Eddie’s lap. “Why? Because you’re sick for Christmas?”

“Nah, dat’s dah best time to be sick,” Eddie agreed. “Then you don’t have to miss work.”

Richie shook his head as he passed the spoon to Eddie. “I’m going to pretend like I didn’t even here that, otherwise I’m legally obligated to give you a wedgie. Make-outs notwithstanding.”

Eddie grumbled. “_Dat’s_ why it’s bullshit. Because we could have been…” he nodded his head meaningfully. He looked up at Richie, then back down, then back up. “_You_ know.”

“Fucking like bunnies?” Richie snorted. In a tangle of gangly limbs he tumbled over Eddie, barely missing the tray as he settled into his side of the bed. He stretched out on his side, long legs stretched all the way out and crossed at the ankle. Eddie frowned at his shoes on the bed but he supposed he couldn’t complain. Not like he was up for changing the sheets in his state.

“Basically,” Eddie agreed, because there was no beating around the bush there.

“Not to get like, you know: _gay_,” Richie prefaced, “but I don’t mind, Eds. Seriously. It’s… ya know.” He smiled kinda wobbly over at Eddie. “It’s a fucking delight to be with you. Even if it’s just wiping your snot.”

“Gross,” Eddie sighed. His eyes drifted closed as he thought about this. After a moment he observed: “So your love language is quality time, I guess.”

“Incorrect. Words of affirmation, twelve outta twelve,” Richie told him. “What, all those sweet words about tenderly fucking your mother meant _nothing_ to you?”

Eddie giggled, even though he could barely breathe and his chest felt like it was on fire. Fumbling a hand out he reached for Richie, who grabbed it and held fast, swiping his thumb over the backs of Eddie’s knuckles. Eddie smiled behind his closed eyes.

“Well mine’s act of serbice so this is really working for be. I’ve had half a chub the last four days,” he joked.

Richie laughed and tugged Eddie’s hand up to his mouth, kissing the back of it lovingly. Eddie wanted to tell him not to, wanted to tell him about how germy his hands most definitely were, but Richie wouldn’t care. Not to mention that if he was going to catch whatever Eddie had, he would have caught it already. Then Richie shook his hand lightly and released it.

“C’mon, Eduardo. Time to eat. We gotta keep your strength up.”

Eddie sighed and opened his eyes. He had to bat away Richie’s hand as he mockingly made a grab for the soup spoon.

“We don’t want you wasting away in your great illness and then have to wait another week to fatten yourself up enough for sex.”

Eddie snorted into his soup, almost spitting it everywhere (which would be kinda funny, because, ha: split pea soup and spitting it. Classic).

“I don’t dink I’m going to starbe to death in a week,” Eddie reassured him. He patted his belly with his left hand. “Plenty of stored fat.”

“Yeah, uh, are you fucking kidding me? For a forty-year-old you’re like, stupidly fit.” He paused for a moment. “I mean, you’re not _Ben_ fit, but that fat fuck’s got a lifetime of being skinny to catch up on, so he doesn’t count.”

“I don’t dink you can call him a ‘fat fuck’ anymore,” Eddie pointed out. “Actually, you shouldn’t call him a ‘fat fuck’ at all. Kinda a dick move.”

“I’ll show you a dick move…” Richie growled, low and sultry. But then he pressed the back of his hand to Eddie’s forehead and combed his fingers gently through his hair, pushing back sweaty, sticky fly-aways that had been driving Eddie crazy. Eddie sighed and leaned into the touch.

“Uh-uh, keep eating, loverboy,” Richie nudged him. “Even if it does look like baby vomit.”

“It’s actually delicious. Did Beb make dis?”

“Ben.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.”

Dutifully Eddie shoveled soup into his mouth as Richie watched him. Eddie glanced up and caught Richie looking. But instead of looking away Richie just smiled, then leaned forward to press a kiss to his temple. It kind of… took Eddie’s breath away. Their eyes locked and Eddie thought how very much he wanted to kiss Richie right now. But he wouldn’t, because he couldn’t breathe through his nose, and he couldn’t _imagine_ pulling away from a tender, passionate kiss with Richie Tozier and seeing his own snot smeared all over his face. Eddie nearly gagged just imagining it.

“I’m sorry,” Eddie grumbled, dragging his gaze away from Richie’s lips.

Richie slung an arm around his shoulder and dragged him close, pressing a firm kiss to his sweaty hair. “Shut up, Eddie.”

“Okay.”

* * *

Eddie’s eyes opened liked they were on springs on the last day at Bev and Bill’s. He breathed deeply through his nose.

Mother fuck.

“Get up, Richie, get up.”

“Where is it?!” Richie gasped, fumbling up and getting tangled in the sheets until he fell out of the bed. Eddie scrambled over the side to look down at him and winced. Richie squinted blindly up at him. “Eds?”

“I’m not sick.”

“Fuck, Eddie, okay, calm the fuck down. I’ll throw you a fucking CVS receipt parade, what do you-” Richie stopped, gears in his head turning over. “You’re not-”

“Get your skinny ass up here, Tozier, so we can jack each other off before we’re a six-hour plane ride away from each other again.”

“Fuck it, I’m moving to New York,” Richie swore, but he scrambled onto the bed and wasted exactly zero seconds before he mashed his mouth against Eddie’s.

“Oh, fuck, gross, no-” Eddie shoved Richie off him, wrinkling his nose. “How is your morning breath _that_ bad, did you fucking puke and not wash your teeth before crawling into bed last night?”

“Fuck you, you taste like NyQuil and mucus,” Richie griped.

“Bathroom,” Eddie ordered.

So they scrambled into the bathroom, Richie pissing right there in front of Eddie while he was brushing his teeth (seriously: gross) and Eddie forcing Richie out so he could pee (he couldn’t with Richie in there watching him; also, he was already half-hard, he needed a minute for it to soften up). They pounded back down the hallway together, prompting Bill to stick his head out of his guest bedroom door as they stormed past.

“W-W-”

“Eddie’s feeling better! Flight’s in four hours! We need to _FUCK_!” Richie shouted at the top of his lungs.

Well. He wasn’t wrong. Eddie grabbed Richie by the shirt collar and shoved him into their shared room.

They were on each other before the door even closed, mouths licking and gasping, too much teeth as they laughed at Bill and themselves and Eddie’s apparently utterly shit immune system. Richie was undressed before Eddie could blink, Eddie still tugging his shirt over his head. He glanced down—he couldn’t help it, and he supposed he was allowed to, even _expected_ to, now—and stopped. His shirt dangled in one loose hand.

Richie squirmed when he lowered himself onto the bed. “Having, uh… some regrets there, Eds?”

Eddie clamped his mouth shut, head shaking from side to side on a swivel.

“Nope, no. Nope. No, no. No. I, uh.”

He held his shirt over his groin.

“Fuck hell, Tozier, you had to be hung like a fucking horse?”

Richie beamed. He reached one of those freakishly long legs out and hooked it around Eddie’s calf, dragging him closer.

“It’s not a competition, babe.”

“Don’t call me babe.”

Richie licked his apology into Eddie’s mouth. “I showed you mine…”

“Okay, well… I’d like to point out that five inches is the worldwide average, and there’s nothing wrong-”

“Eddie, seriously. It’s _your_ dick, I’d be fucking thrilled if it was a micropenis. If you had a one inch nub I’d suck on it until I died from dehydration. I’ve been fantasizing about sucking your dick since _my_ dick was just a baby little chub, I don’t fucking care.”

“It’s not a _micro_penis,” Eddie grumbled. It was perfectly normal, really. Even a little _above_ average, thank you very much. But compared to Richie’s…

Somehow, five months of watching gay porn had not prepared him for this particular aspect of gay sex. Eddie supposed it was because all the actors were fucking huge. Kinda like… well, Richie hung-like-a-horse over here. Great.

Richie kissed him so soundly Eddie kind of forgot what he was stressing about, and then Richie’s big hands were pushing his sweatpants down, over his hips, over his dick, and Eddie stepped out of them dutifully before letting Richie drag him into his lap. Richie’s hands were all over his back, running up, down, squeezing his ass. Eddie gasped, twitched, as their dicks brushed each other. He glanced down between them—he couldn’t help it, he had to look—and a spurt of precome leaked from his dick at the sight.

“See? Gorgeous,” Richie murmured against his cheek.

“Shut up,” Eddie grumbled.

Richie spit into his hand and reached between them to stroke them together, and Eddie didn’t even complain, it felt that good. He pressed his forehead to Richie’s and breathed. “Fuck, Tozier.”

“I know I am but what are you?” Richie sing-songed, but too sweetly, voice punched out and awe leaking through.

“I don’t know if I can take that up my ass,” Eddie fumbled out. He didn’t know if he could take _anything_ up his ass, actually, but no need to get into that just yet. There was plenty of time to come to terms with his body as a gay-or-bi man or whatever, but Richie’s ridiculous schlong was the relevant issue at hand. As it were.

“I figured assplay wasn’t on the table today,” Richie reassured him. “You’re gonna be one of those gays that gives himself an enema every time before he has anal sex.”

…Huh. That was an option? Eddie thought about that. That actually… made a lot of sense. Very hygienic. He should look into th-

“Yo, Eds, I’m giving you my best handjob work here, you mind focusing?”

“Shit, sorry!” Eddie leaned in for an apology kiss, and Richie pulled back just enough to bite his nose first before diving in with too much tongue and teeth. It was kind of perfect. And extremely hot, in a gross way. Eddie moaned and sucked on Richie’s tongue.

Suddenly Richie was flipping them, tossing Eddie onto the bed (_fuck_, Eddie’s dick _jolted_ as that, apparently he really had a thing for Richie manhandling him) and climbing on top. Eddie grinned up at Richie and accepted a deep, aching kiss from him, tongues sliding over each other.

“I meant it about the BJ,” Richie told him, mouthing at Eddie’s jaw. “Do you mind?”

“Do I mind you sucking on my dick? Holy fuck Richie, how closeted have you been?”

“Watch that mouth, Kaspbrak,” Richie warned. But he was kissing his way down Eddie’s neck (_fuck_, Richie’s _mouth_ on his _neck_) and over his chest and parts beyond, so really, how much of a threat could that possibly be.

Eddie nearly shot his load at the first pass of Richie’s mouth over the head of his dick. He hissed as Richie slipped him all the way in, no warning, just going to _town_ bobbing his head up and down, slobbering all over it.

“Oh, _fuck_,” Eddie moaned, head flung back against the pillows. He slapped one hand onto Richie’s head, just for something to hold onto, as Richie relentlessly assaulted his dick.

It was the hottest fucking sex Eddie had ever had in his sad, short life.

He blew on Richie’s face in like two minutes. Afterwards he went limp, muscles feeling the exertion after a week laid up with the flu. Richie grabbed a shirt and wiped his sticky mouth on it. Eddie didn’t even care that he was pretty sure it was his shirt.

Richie nuzzled at his neck, humping his dick gently against Eddie’s hip.

“Sorry,” Eddie mumbled.

“Fucking don’t be, it’s an honor,” Richie scoffed. “Hey, uh…”

Eddie reached for Richie’s dick but he batted the hand away.

“Nah, sexy, you don’t gotta. Could I just… like, hump your leg like this? I’m gonna shoot my wad in like T minus.”

Eddie yawned. “You sure?”

Richie mouthed wetly at Eddie’s neck, panting hard. “Okay actually it’s gonna be like fifteen seconds, fuck.”

“Wait, wait.”

Richie groaned, rubbing against Eddie’s leg. “What? Is it too messy? I can put a sock on it-”

“No- okay, one: gross. Remind me never to borrow socks from you. But two: no, c’mere, I can make it better, hang on.”

This, Eddie had researched. He grabbed the (unused, as of yet) bottle of lube he had optimistically placed in his dresser drawer that first afternoon they’d arrived and rolled back to slick up Richie’s dick. Richie moaned, fucking into Eddie’s hand with his eyes closed, savoring every stroke. Then Eddie rolled over, presenting his ass to Richie.

“_Not_ in my ass,” Eddie warned. “But you can fuck my legs, you know?”

“Fuck, you fucking genius little sparkplug,” Richie moaned, grabbing Eddie and dragging him in to be the little spoon. He pushed his dick between Eddie’s legs with a sob, and it was over in thirty seconds—more than double the amount of time he’d predicted. As he stilled against Eddie’s back, his breathing changed from heady pants to broken, intermittent sobs.

“Richie?”

Richie’s arm tightened around Eddie, holding him in place. “Nope,” he croaked. “I’m fine. Stay right there.”

Of course Eddie wasn’t going to listen. He fought, slapping at Richie’s arm and squirmiling himself around until they were facing each other. Richie pressed his face into the pillow, trying to hide it from Eddie.

“Hey, hey,” Eddie whispered.

“Shut up, I’m fucking fine.”

“I know you are, hey.”

“Fuck off, Eds.”

Eddie shushed him, wrapping one arm around Richie’s neck and pulling him into his chest. That just made Richie sob harder, which he probably fucking hated, but too bad. Eddie wasn’t about to ignore him, pretend like this wasn’t happening. Pretending like this wasn’t fucking _huge_ for Richie, after a lifetime of _knowing_, of _wanting_, and shoving that feeling deep enough down that it came out as ‘your mom’ jokes and toilet humor.

Richie’s crying jag lasted longer than the actual sex had, but eventually he sniffled his last and gently pushed back from Eddie’s chest. “Fuck, sorry. Fuck.”

“Don’t worry, I took tons of video,” Eddie reassured him. “Livestreamed it to your five fans worldwide.”

“God I fucking love you.”

Richie winced as soon as he said it.

“I meant to say I hate you.”

Eddie snorted. “You’re really batting a thousand today, dude.”

“Fuck you.”

“You kinda just did.”

Richie whimpered like he was choking back another “I love you.” Eddie leaned forward and kissed him to save him the humiliation. Richie gasped as they pulled away just enough to breathe, rolling his forehead against Eddie’s. His hand came up to brush at Eddie’s cheek, tracing a line where a scar might have been if It’s most recent crimes hadn’t been undone with its death. Richie swallowed a couple times, bringing himself under control.

“What about you?” he asked, and his voice still cracked a little, hard as he had tried to avoid that.

Eddie smiled, little frown line of curiosity bringing his eyebrows together. “What do you mean?”

Richie’s eyes were tracing along Eddie’s face: over his eyebrows, his temples, his ears. “I mean: aren’t you due for a big gay freak-out? This, uh…” Richie dropped his eyes. “Pretty sure this was your first time with a guy, right?”

Eddie sniffed, a little insulted by the totally correct presumption. He might have gone crazy in college—Richie didn’t know him that well! Except, of course he did, and of course, he was exactly right.

“I’ve kind of been having a low level but steady gay freak-out for the past five months,” Eddie admitted. “And I don’t know if I’m gay.”

“Uh… hate to break it to you, Eds, but…”

“Yeah yeah, but I mean: am I gay, or am I bi? Pan—that’s a thing with the kids these days, apparently. Am I just gay for you, which is apparently kind of biphobic, I gather?”

Richie’s mouth had fallen open. After a minute he closed it and almost appeared to be thinking about it. “Uh… I don’t really know, Eddie. I don’t really know about any of that shit.”

“But you’re gay.”

“Oh yeah, gay as fuck, and deeply closeted. I basically fuck at gay bars and cry into my ice cream alone in bed while I watch _In and Out_ for the fiftieth time on Netflix.” He thought about this. “Honestly, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it well over fifty times, Christ, that’s pathetic.”

Eddie smiled softly. “I woulda pegged you as a Birdcage fan. Robin Williams.”

Richie clasped Eddie’s hand and pressed it to his heart. “Robin Williams,” he repeated, reverently. Eddie squinted.

“Though I think that makes me Nathan Lane, and-”

“Nah, sweetie, no way.”

“Don’t call me sweetie.”

“Anyway, I’ve had sex with women,” Eddie continued. “I think I enjoyed it. Some of the time. And it never occurred to me to want you, until…”

“Until I laid one on you in an Olive Garden? Yeah. Pretty sure that means the gay thing _is_ contagious. Don’t tell the straights.”

“I just really don’t feel like I’ve gathered enough data to ascribe a label to myself just yet,” Eddie finished. “That’s what I was trying to tell you in the airport, by the way.”

Richie’s eyes gleamed and he slid his hand down Eddie’s flank before squeezing roughly at his ass.

“Well. I know of only solution, then.”

They weren’t teenagers anymore. They weren’t even on the right side of their forties. Which meant that Eddie turned on the TV and they lazed around relentlessly mocking Bev and Ben’s Netflix account as they waited for their refractory period to be over. At one point Eddie snuck downstairs and grabbed them some breakfast in bed, since Richie had so graciously been providing for him this whole last week. He made eye contact with Stan on his way out of the kitchen, who just held up his hands and shook his head. Good. Eddie didn’t feel like giving him the gory details, either.

That’s what Richie was for.

After stacking their trays carefully by the door, well out of the way, Eddie turned to Richie and put his hands on hips. Richie smiled curiously up at him from where he was lounging, still naked, on the bed.

“Okay. Let’s find out what it’s like to suck cock,” Eddie announced.

Richie whooped, dropping back onto the pillows with his arms raised over his head. Eddie straddled him, kissing him soundly, and Richie lowered his arms to wrap them around Eddie’s back and hold him close. Eddie lowered his hips, rolling them lightly over Richie’s, and found himself gasping into Richie’s mouth at the sensation. Even through his sweatpants, his half-hard dick rubbing against Richie’s increasingly turgid member was a feeling to savor. Eddie broke the kiss with a gasp, forehead pressed to Richie’s. Richie’s fingers scratched through Eddie’s hair.

“No pressure,” Richie reassured him.

Eddie snorted. “Yeah, right. You’ve been dreaming about this day since you had your first wet dream. No pressure at all.”

“You already shot your load in my face. That’s like, eighty percent of my teenaged fantasies fulfilled, right there. Anything else the first time is just gravy.”

“Alright, time to get acquainted with _your_ gravy…” Eddie said, making his way down. Then he winced and glanced up at Richie. “Uh, but… tell me?”

Richie caressed Eddie’s face tenderly. “Eddie, my love. I promise not to sploot my hot man juices in your mouth. I’ll warn you.”

Eddie smiled in relief. It wasn’t that it was _unthinkable_, just. He’d need to warm up to the idea, you know?

He had licked his hand and started jerking Richie off cautiously when he remembered one more thing.

“Oh, uh… Since you’ve… you know, had sex with men who have sex with men…”

Richie rolled his eyes but nodded. “I’m clean, Eddie. We’ve got condoms, if you want…”

He should, even for a blowjob. But maybe some of that fever was still left in Eddie’s system because he was feeling a little reckless, and a lot dizzy with desire. He shook his head. “It’s good.” He squeezed Richie’s dick warningly. “But if I wake up tomorrow morning with a fucking coldsore on my lip I’m going to hop on the next flight to LA and kick your ass.”

“Duly noted,” Richie nodded, growing a little frantic. “Scouts honor, Eds.”

It absolutely wasn’t good safe sex practices. But Eddie really wanted to find out what it was like to suck Richie Tozier’s dick, and he didn’t want to do it through a condom. Stealing himself, Eddie took a deep breath, then leaned down. He wrapped his lips around Richie’s cockhead and sucked lightly, then let himself lick at it. Beneath him Richie jerked hard before he stopped himself.

“Sorry, sorry,” Richie breathed. He stroked a hand over Eddie’s hair, smoothing his hair back. Eddie tried taking more of him into his mouth, working his way down the shaft. He slipped off just long enough to spit on both his palms so he could grasp the base of Richie’s dick, all those inches he couldn’t reach. Then he was back at it, gobbling cock like he was made for it. Eddie hummed lightly and was rewarded with another jerk of Richie’s hips, gagging him slightly. Eddie smiled inside, chest warm with the feeling that he was doing something right. That he could be good at this. That he could make Richie feel good.

“You’ve been wasting yourself on women,” Richie announced, hands tangled in Eddie’s hair. Eddie took that as a compliment as Richie’s hips twitched up. “Fuck, fuck, Eddie, your _tongue_. Oh, yeah, right there, just like that.”

See, this was the problem with blowing Richie Tozier. His mouth was free to do whatever it wanted. Eddie snorted to himself as he lowered his mouth as far as he could do on Richie’s ridiculous monster schlong. He pulled off just to catch his breath, jerking Richie steadily as he took a break.

“You’re incredible,” Richie promised him, hand cupping Eddie’s chin. His thumb swiped over Eddie’s swollen lower lip. “You look so fucking hot, Eds.”

Eddie shrugged, a little embarrassed by the praise. He could never take compliments well. Instead, he sunk back down on Richie’s dick, moving one hand to play with his balls.

“Ngh, fuck, Eddie, can I… I’m just gonna… Just a little…”

“Don’t you fucking come in my mouth,” Eddie threatened, jerking off Richie’s dick. Richie groaned in frustration, grabbing at Eddie.

“No, no, I told you I wouldn’t. I just wanna, lemme…”

Suspiciously Eddie lowered his mouth back down to Richie’s dick, maintaining eye contact the whole way. Richie grabbed Eddie’s hair and started gently fucking his hips up into his face. Ah, okay. Eddie struggled to relax his throat, telling his body it was just like dry-swallowing pills. It actually _worked_, and he found himself swallowing more and more of Richie’s dick as Richie moaned and grabbed his hair, fucking up into his mouth.

“Fuck, fuck, Eddie, holy shit, you’re a fucking masterclass cock sucker, look at you go.”

Eddie raised his eyebrows, looking up at Richie looking down at him with something like awe.

“Fuck, you’re fucking beautiful, yeah, just…” Richie’s hips stuttered, fucking too hard for one thrust, then reigning himself back in. Eddie breathed through his nose and took it, eyes drifting closed. “Aw, yeah, fuck, Eddie. Swallowing my cock like a pro, holy shit. Just… just taking it… take my dick… let me fuck that pretty little mouth…”

Eddie moaned and reached down to cup his own dick through his sweats, squeezing just enough to release some tension. Fuck, he was hard. Next time they’d sixty-nine. Then Richie would something better to do with his mouth, at least.

Because there was going to be a next time. There was going to be a thousand next times. A lifetime. Eddie moaned, hand tightening on his own dick. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and he wrote them off to the monster dick he was currently deepthroating.

“Okay, fuck, I can’t, I can’t-”

Richie’s grip loosened on his hair and Eddie pulled off with a gasp. He replaced his mouth with his hands, jerking smoothly, working the head.

“Gonna come?”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck-” Richie’s eyes were squeezed shut. His mouth fell open as he came, come spurting from his dick and escaping Eddie’s fist to land on their stomachs. Eddie wrinkled his nose, but at least it wasn’t in his mouth. Or his hair.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Richie whispered. He had one hand flung over his eyes, chest heaving. His dick twitched weakly as Eddie finished wringing the last drops of come from his dick. After a few moments of heavy breathing he lifted his hand from his eyes just enough to peer out at Eddie.

“I’ve created a monster. The gay kiss worked too well and now I’m doomed to a life where my boyfriend is a better lay than me.”

Eddie’s brain skittered over the word “boyfriend,” but he supposed that’s what they were. Time to be a grown-up about it. Eddie snorted as he leaned over to grab tissues from the nightstand to clean them both up (but mostly his hand). Fuck, that was a lot of come. Did he come this much? No way, right?

“Seeing as how your BJ skills had me shooting in like, one minute flat this morning, I kinda doubt that.”

“Oh good, we’re equally incredible lays,” Richie mumbled, dropping his hand back over his head.

Now it was Eddie’s turn to curl up against Richie, dick hard and wanting. But he was less of a whiney bitch about it than Richie was.

Eventually Richie rolled over and glanced down between them. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Whatever you want,” Eddie answered honestly. Just getting off would be fantastic. Getting off while kissing Richie would be mind-blowing. In fact, Eddie leaned forward and kissed Richie, licking into his mouth, lips smacking lazily against each other. Fuck. He couldn’t imagine getting tired of this, of kissing Richie. He didn’t know how the fuck they were going to handle long distance while they got their shit sorted. He sure wasn’t looking forward to it.

“You could fuck me,” Richie licked into Eddie’s mouth. Eddie groaned, humping embarrassingly against Richie’s leg.

“No, you just got off…”

“So? You didn’t. I don’t need to be hard for you to fuck me.”

“That’s no fun for you.”

“Trust me, having Eddie Kaspbrak inside me is going to be loads of fucking fun for me, I promise you.”

Eddie leaned back, glancing between them. He looked up at Richie. “Do you really want me to?”

Richie grabbed Eddie’s face, stroking at him. “Holy shit, are you kidding me? Of course I want you to.”

“You don’t, uh… Want it the other way around?”

“I want you literally every way,” Richie promised. “And right now you’re the one with the erection.”

Point. Eddie bit his lip. “I don’t really know…”

“Lemme get ready for you,” Richie told him. “You can wear a condom, it’ll be all nice and sanitary.”

That sounded incredibly appealing, actually. Eddie breathed through his teeth and tried to will himself not to shoot off right then and there. “Okay.”

The grabbed condoms and lube from the dresser drawer, passing the lube between them as they each prepped their own business. Eddie had a moment where tears sprang to his eyes, just passing the lube over to Richie and Richie smirking and taking it from him, their fingers brushing. It was so… companionable. It was something he’d never had before, in a partner. Or, more technically, it was something he had had his whole life, and just forgot. It was the thing he’d been looking for without realizing it. Eddie bent to the condom wrapper as he choked back tears.

“Hngk, fuck,” Richie swore under his breath. Eddie glanced over at him, then found himself swallowing compulsively as he watched Richie stretch himself. Fucking fuck, how was he supposed to last long enough to get inside? Eddie quickly removed his hand from his condom-clad dick.

“Alright, Richie?”

Richie nodded, face screwed up in concentration. “Yeah just… trying to avoid my prostate, since, ya know, my dick is still aching from that BJ.”

Eddie frowned. “But I’m going to hit it when I’m fucking you, aren’t I?”

“Okay Mr. Confident,” Richie smirked. “Let’s see you put your dick where your mouth is.”

(Wait, was it difficult to hit? He really should have done better research than just watching porn. Stupid, Eddie.)

Richie fucked two fingers into himself, lube sloppy and dripping all over the sheets. Eddie’s mouth watered as he watched, hypnotized, as Richie’s fingers disappeared in and out of his dripping hole. His ass and thighs were covered with a thick spread of dark hair, tangling with the hair on his forearms as he flexed to reach the awkward angle. A moan escaped Richie’s throat and he tossed his head to the side, hips stuttering weakly.

Eddie was going to have to do more research. Figure a way to be okay with shoving his fingers and whatnot inside Richie’s asshole. Because _he_ wanted to make Richie make those noises. _He_ wanted to be the one to get him dripping wet before they fucked. Eddie’s dick twitched hard against his stomach.

“Okay, c’mon,” he muttered.

Richie grinned and opened his eyes. “Sorry. Too much of a show.”

“I mean, only if you’re ready…”

“Oh I’m ready for you, big boy.”

“Definitely don’t call me _that_.” Eddie stared at Richie’s dick, flaccid but still sizeable lying on his hip.

“Go on, Eds,” Richie whispered.

“I feel like George Costanza,” Eddie muttered. “Shoulda gone out on top. Great BJ skills, I should have just tapped out there before you realized I’m shit at everything else.”

“Bullshit,” Richie laughed as he grabbed at Eddie’s hips. He shoved a pillow under himself, angling his hips up for Eddie. “You’re incredible.”

Eddie breathed deep. “Thanks, Richie.”

“C’mere.”

Richie pulled him down and they kissed, and kissed, and kissed. Eddie broke the kiss just enough so that he could concentrate on pushing into Richie. Then he rested his forehead against Richie’s, unable to do much more than be incredibly overwhelmed in the moment.

“Okay so you know I totally love you, right? There’s no use pretending,” Richie admitted, voice punched-out.

“You’re a shit liar anyway,” Eddie told him.

“I’ve loved you since I was thirteen. I just forgot.”

“I’ve known I’ve loved you for a week,” Eddie admitted. “But I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah you are,” Richie agreed. “Also, if you don’t start moving, I’m gonna fall out of love real fast.”

“Fuck, yeah, okay.”

Turns out, fucking was fucking, and Eddie knew how to fuck. He groaned as he humped Richie’s ass, bit his lip as he tried not to come right away from the _heat_ and _pressure._

“Fuck, it’s not too tight, is it?” Eddie asked. Richie shook his head frantically.

“No, no. It’s perfect, you’re perfect.”

Eddie threw Richie’s legs over his shoulders as he started fucking in earnest. Richie moaned and braced himself with both hands on the headboard, body shaking with each of Eddie’s pounding thrusts. His dick wasn’t getting hard, but he was moaning like it was.

“Fuck, fuck, you feel so tight,” Eddie hissed, and okay, turns out the compulsion to talk incessantly during sex wasn’t just limited to Richie. “Richie, fuck, you’re incredible. You feel so good, I…”

“Yeah, yeah Eddie, give it to me.”

Eddie scrambled for Richie, who dropped a hand and grabbed on, holding tight. Eddie clenched his jaw, tendons straining in his neck. He couldn’t hold on.

“Fuck, fuck, Richie, I’m gonna-”

“Come on, Eddie. Blow that load in me. Fill me up, make me your little cumslut.”

Eddie came laughing, which he’d… that had never, not once in his life…

Eddie’s hips jerked as he spurted another load of jizz into the condom, and pressed a hand up to his face. He was laughing so hard his face was wet. Richie’s thumb rubbed over the back of his other hand in soothing little circles. Eddie groaned, pressing his hips one last time against Richie’s ass, rotating them, feeling his dick finally give up its last inside of him.

“_Fuuuuuck_,” Eddie groaned, collapsing on top of Richie. Richie wrapped his arms around Eddie, running lines up and down his back. Eddie pressed his face to Richie’s neck and breathed deep the smell he hadn’t known he’d been missing for twenty-seven years.

“Condom, Eds,” Richie finally reminded him.

“I can’t believe you broke first,” Eddie said with a grin. He leaned back, grabbing the base of the condom as he eased out. Richie shuddered, eyes slipping shut at the sensation. Eddie pulled the condom off and wrapped it in a dozen tissues. 

“Hang on, I gotta…”

Richie was drooling lightly against the pillow. Eddie leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead, which he tried to return but just ended up kissing air.

Even though he was bone-tired after that marathon fuck session (two times in a morning was a marathon, by his standards. Especially the first day of recovery after a serious illness!), Eddie made his way down to the guest bathroom to wash his dick, and his hands, and dispose of the condom.

By the time he returned to their shared room Richie was full-on snoring. Eddie grabbed for his phone, set an alarm for thirty minutes, and crawled into bed next to him. Apparently Richie wasn’t quite as asleep as he’d seemed, or was a subconscious cuddler, because as soon as Eddie’s head hit the pillow Richie was on him, dragging him close. Eddie blushed but let it happen. And he didn’t even take offense at being the little spoon, since for one, there was no way he could spoon Richie’s gawkily gigantic frame, and for another, he’d just tapped that ass, so his masculinity remained unthreatened.

Eddie drifted off with a smile on his lips, thinking about how funny it was to be worried about his dude cred when he’d just fucked his best friend. He’d have to remember to tell Richie that, later. Maybe he could even work it into one of his acts, or something.

* * *

Eddie dropped his second bag down next to the front door, going in to hug Bev one more time. “Sorry for ruining the holiday,” he apologized for the tenth time.

“Honey, you could never,” Bev assured him. She patted his cheek and smiled. “Had a good time anyway?”

Eddie sputtered. “Er, uh, yeah, you know-”

“Edward! What are you doing still chatting with Bev! I want one more quickie with that ass before we’re outta here!” Richie smacked Eddie’s ass hard.

Eddie closed his eyes and counted to five. That usually worked with Richie, right? No wait, bullshit: that had worked exactly _never_ with Richie. He opened his eyes and glared over his shoulder. Richie just smiled and leaned in for a kiss. Eddie found himself kissing back—just a quick peck—and abruptly realized that any trick he had against Richie (and they were too few and ineffective to boot) was negated by Richie’s ability to kiss him now.

Oh great. He was going to have to develop a whole new batch of strategies for dealing with Richie Tozier. As Richie leaned away from him with a wink, Eddie realized that he… really didn’t mind. He smiled softly over at Richie. They had all the time in the world, now. He could work on those strategies. No matter if it took the rest of his life.

Bill walked into the living room, hands shoved in his pockets as he eyed Eddie and Richie like they were going to break out in a spontaneous case of the make-outs. Eddie glanced at Richie and hoped he wasn’t picking up on that vibe, because Richie _absolutely_ would break into a spontaneous make-out session if he realized that’s what Bill was afraid of. And Eddie probably wouldn’t stop him, because really, the more make-outs, the better, in his book. He was about to go home to New York just in time for _New Years_, to his single shitty divorced man apartment, alone. He needed to stock-pile make-outs.

“Guys,” Bill said.

“_Bill_,” Richie said, in a pretty shockingly good imitation of Bill’s voice.

“Eddie,” Bill said. “S-s-orry you missed most the holiday.”

Eddie shrugged sheepishly. “Eh, we’ll do it again next year.”

“Round robin!” Bev suggested, excitedly. “We should swap off holidays every year. Different people hosting.”

Ben entered the room, smiling as he put an arm around Bev. “Good thinking. Then we don’t get stuck hosting every time by default.”

“Yeah my apartment can fit like four people. Standing,” Eddie said.

“Mine’s some bullshit open-plan loft thing,” Richie said. “No privacy.”

Bill glanced between them. “I c-c-ould actually host,” he admitted. “Plenty of room.”

“What are we talking about?” Mike asked as he walked in carrying his modest dufflebag.

“Who’s hosting next holiday. I guess you’re out, Mr. Gap-Year Abroad,” Richie pointed out. “Dick move, Mike.”

Mike laughed and shrugged. “Well, you all wouldn’t fit in my old house in Derry anyways. Stan?”

Stan blinked, head jerking up from where he was wheeling his luggage into the living room. “What?”

“Hosting,” Richie said. “Holidays. You gonna put us up in your fancy penthouse with the Missus?”

“It’s not a penthouse,” Stan grumbled. Eddie snorted. He knew Stan’s address. They’d done dinner a few times. It definitely wasn’t _shabby_. “I mean, you guys would be triple to a room, but we could do it.”

“I volunteer Eddie’s as my crash-pad and we can commute,” Richie offered, hand raised.

Bill rolled his eyes. “G-g-ood,” he muttered.

“Sorry Bill, what was that?” Richie asked. Bill glared at him. “No really, I didn’t get it.”

“I s-s-aid-”

“What was it?”

“I-”

“One more time Bill.”

“G-g-g-”

“Still not getting it.”

“F-f-fuck you, Tozier!” Bill finally spat out.

Stan snickered hard. Eddie ducked his head. He probably shouldn’t encourage Richie. He’d have to work on that.

“Well, that’s assuming Eddie’s still living in New York next year,” Bev reminded them all.

Both Richie and Eddie turned to Bev together, like synchronized swimmers.

“What?”

“What?”

Bev looked between them like she was stunned they weren’t getting this.

“Uh… unless you’ve already decided on making the move to New York, Richie?”

“Fuck no, all my shit’s in LA.”

Bev waited a beat for them to get it. She gestured between them.

Eddie opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He turned and looked at Richie, shoving his hands in his pockets. Richie’s mouth was similarly working without getting out much more than spluttering noises. He folded his arms over his chest, biceps flexing under his sweater. Eddie found himself distracted by the sight before he shook himself and refocused.

“We’re not…” Richie finally got out.

“We haven’t discussed…” Eddie tried to continue.

The Losers stared at them.

What bullshit having friends was.

Bev patted Eddie on the arm and then pulled him in to kiss his cheek. “Alright, sweetie. Let us know where you end up.”

Eddie thought that was pretty presumptuous of everyone. They’d just slept together for the first time like, two hours ago!

They shared the cab ride to the airport, just the two of them, and practiced holding hands in public. Richie kept smiling over at Eddie like he wanted to make a joke or kiss him senseless or start crying, all the emotions battling for dominance at once. Eddie would have ruthlessly made fun of him for it if he didn’t feel the exact same way.

Eddie moved out to LA three months later. He hated almost all of it. Richie loved him for it. And at least now his chances of having a heart attack shoveling snow—one of the top killers of middle-aged men!—were reduced pretty much to zero. His chance of falling into a sex coma and dying of dehydration greatly increased, but that was a risk he was willing to take.

* * *

Eddie rushed around their kitchen, pot of potatoes held between his oven-mitted hands as he frantically looked for the trivet he had _just had_ on the counter- “Richie!”

“I’m here, my love,” Richie announced, swooning into the room. He had a handful of cheese and crackers and was shoveling them into his mouth like they wouldn’t totally ruin his appetite.

“Where the fuck did you put the trivet?!”

Richie looked around the kitchen, turning in a slow circle, before he turned back to Eddie. “What the fuck is a trivet?”

“The pot stand! To keep the heat from the pot from damaging the Corinthian marble countertops that _you_ insisted we _had_ to have because LA went to your damn head and-”

“Okay, okay, Eds…” Richie stepped forward, placing his hands on both of Eddie’s shoulders. “Deep breaths?”

“I’m holding a pot of boiling water filled with potatoes,” Eddie gritted out. “I don’t need deep breaths I _need the fucking trivet_!”

Tsking softly, Richie reached into one of their impeccably organized kitchen drawers and pulled out two dishtowels. He unfolded them both into squares the size of the cooking pot Eddie was holding, grabbed the pot from Eddie, and dropped it down onto the towels.

“Counters saved,” he announced. Then he leaned in and dropped a kiss to the tip of Eddie’s disgruntled nose. “And you can put hot pots directly onto marble countertops. It’s why I insisted on them, you nub.”

“What the fuck’s a nub?” Eddie grumbled.

“You are. Because your dick’s a little bitty nub, remember?”

Eddie’s entire skin turned red, from the tips of his toes to the tops of his ears.

“It is _fucking not_!”

“I mean, it’s hard for me, like, _perceptually_, to tell the size of yours because mine’s so big-”

“I’m going to fucking kill you. I’m in a kitchen _full of knives_ and _no jury would convict me, Richie Tozier_!”

Richie beamed and grabbed Eddie by the waist, spinning him around in a waltz. He ended it by dipping Eddie and planting a fat, wet kiss on his lips. Eddie scowled and wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand when he stood, but. But maybe his good humor might be sneaking back.

Richie clapped his hands together. “Alright, now, _Chef Edouard_: what can I do?”

Music to his ears. Good humor well and full restored. Eddie nodded at the pot of potatoes. “Drain that, toss in the butter and cream I have sitting on the windowsill there, and mash.” Eddie grabbed Richie by his button-up shirt collar and dragged him in close. “Mash until you can’t feel your fingers.”

“Fuck, that’s so hot. Do we have time for a quickie?”

Eddie pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Richie’s lips. Then he pulled back and smiled. “No. Get to work.” He swatted at Richie’s ass. Richie groaned.

Even as he picked up the masher, Richie offered: “You’ve got me like, eighty percent of the way there already. It’ll take me two minutes, tops.”

“Well that’s what every girl wants to hear,” Bev commented as she pushed through the barn door to the kitchen. “What can I do to help?”

Eddie glanced around, running through lists within lists in his head. Then one of his six, carefully labeled timers went off. He grabbed it, read what it was for, and nodded. “You can transfer the sweet potatoes into their serving dish.”

He pulled the sweet potatoes from the oven and set them down on another make-shift trivet Richie fashioned for him without a word out of dishcloths. Eddie dropped a kiss on his chin for his thoughtfulness (though he did wonder where the _fuck_ all his trivets went). Bev made a face, and Richie made a face back, and then they were stuck in a face-making war as Bev shoveled sweet potatoes into a serving dish and Richie mashed the hell out of some potatoes.

The individual stuffed acorn squash nut medley was next. Eddie ducked his head into the oven and basted the turkey one more time before he pulled those out. Richie, after mashing the hell out of those potatoes, plated the brussels sprouts and pancetta without having to be asked.

Eddie was going to marry this man.

It felt weird to know this. But he knew it, just as certainly as he knew his name, and knew the name Richie Tozier.

When all that was left was five minutes more on the turkey, Bev waved a sweaty goodbye to them and made her way back into the living room with a full glass of white, courtesy Richie as a thanks for her efforts. Richie and Eddie were alone in the kitchen once more as the last timer standing ticked down to the turkey.

Richie grabbed Eddie by his waist, backing him up into their Corinthian marble countertops and penning him in with hips and arms. Richie pressed a thumb to Eddie’s chin, smiling softly at whatever he saw in Eddie’s expression. Eddie helped him, tilting his head up just as Richie leaned down to kiss him tenderly.

Gentle, exhausted kisses took a turn towards steamier, and Eddie was just wrapping a leg around Richie’s ass and Richie was lifting Eddie to set him down on their Corinthian marble countertops when the turkey timer went off.

Richie and Eddie flipped it off in unison, not breaking their kiss. The fucking turkey could wait five minutes.


End file.
